Masen Days
by purelyamuse
Summary: Bella meets Masen at the local skate park. He's a quiet, mysterious loner. She wants to help him, love him even. Will he let her? Or will he skate away like he always does? AH. 3rd Place Winner in the Boys on Boards contest! Now an EXPANDED multi-chap!
1. The Day I Meet Masen

**Masen Days by Purelyamuse**

**Summary: **Bella meets Masen at the local skate park. He's a quiet, mysterious loner. She wants to help him, love him even. Will he let her? Or will he skate away like he always does?

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**A/N: **It takes a team of people to make me look good. All mistakes are mine.

**Prereaders:** _ss77_, LuvinJ **Betas:** Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Lifeline by Papa Roach, We're Going to be Friends by White Stripes

**Chapter 1: The Day I Meet Masen**

I'm sitting with Angela and a few other girls whose names evade me. Angela—I remember her because she's flamboyant and easy to talk to. We sit on the burning concrete, watching some boys skate around under a dirty bridge. They're all very good, but one, in particular, keeps catching my eye. He's doing his own thing, but he seems trapped in his own head, too—like he's throwing his own tricks, not paying attention to anyone, but when some other skater biffs it and falls into his way, he reacts in a second, steering clear smoothly. He seems a man among boys—on skateboards.

He's tall and lean, I think; from where I'm sitting it's hard to tell. His new-penny hair, overgrown and shaggy, is shocking against the drab tee stretched across his angular shoulders.

"That's Alec—the tall one with dark hair." She points to another boy—a shorter, beefier one. "That's Tyler; he's got the Pink Floyd shirt. He's kinda loud. You know Embry. Gawd, I love his fauxhawk. So hot. And that's Masen. He's quiet, keeps to himself mostly."

Masen. I'll remember that name. He sounds interesting. I hope I can get to know him. Actually, I hope to get to know anyone. I just moved here. _Here_ being Scottsdale, Arizona. Boring, fake, and hot as hell Snobstale.

It was clear during my first week in this town that boobs are fake, noses are fake, teeth are fake, people are fake. Fake people make me want to hurl. This place is nothing like my home town, Seattle, where everyone is laid back, a bit grunge, and completely real. "Just be yourself," my mother had always said. And she was no hypocrite: when her younger student teacher got on his knee and asked her to marry him in front of twenty-two kindergartners, she said yes, and I was shipped off to Dad's. See? She knows who she is. She is nothing if not herself: a little bit selfish. She wants time with her new man. I get it, I do, but being a senior and moving to a new state and school completely blows. But, whatever, I'll deal. I always do. I have to. I'm a product of a bad divorce. Shit happens. You move on.

There's a lull in the conversation, so I offer up something of the lame variety. "So this is The Wedge, huh?"

"Yep. We come here every day after school so the boys can skate. Sometimes we smoke out, sometimes we just hang and do homework, and sometimes we make out. Well, _we_ being Embry and me." Angela turns to me and bats her eyelashes. I love her already. So real, so fun, so different from the other girls here. I didn't realize I'd be hanging out with skaters when I moved to Arizona, but it seems to be working out so far. They're genuine.

"How cool are these?" she asks, pulling down the top of her massive boot to show me a black and red striped knee sock. "Dollar Store. Can you believe it? You never know what you can get there."

"Nope, you never know."

"Hey, so I'll see you tomorrow . . . first day of scho-ool," she sing-songs. "I think I'm going to steal my man and go. You'll be okay?"

"Sure."

"Oh, wait, no—I have an idea." Angela screams for Embry at the top of her lungs. He nearly falls off his skateboard, but he's laughing.

"What, woman!" he shouts back.

She waves frantically for him to come and adds, "Bring Masen!"

He talks to the redhead, who nods, and they both zigzag through various obstacles. Masen rides a bar on top of a series of steps, landing smoothly before coming to an abrupt stop in front of us.

"Masen, this is Bella Swan. She's over on Fair. Can you make sure she finds the way?"

He nods and glances in my direction briefly. Is he even looking at me?

I say, "Hi."

He says nothing in response. Just shakes his head to get the sweaty strands out of his eyes—which I think are the color of the sea—but I can't be sure because the hair curves back over his face a second later. My eyes sweep over his features, landing on a leather choker around his neck. It's plain but suits him.

"I'm not in any hurry. Feel free to stay awhile."

He turns and skates away, meeting up with the other guys under the bridge and riding the curves of the concrete.

I try to pay attention to the other boys, who show off, doing aerials as if gravity doesn't exist, but I can't keep my eyes off Masen. It's really impressive the way his body moves on such a silly thing as a piece of wood attached to some wheels. I wonder how long he's been a skater and want to ask. I'm not sure if I'll be brave enough, though. Besides, Angela is right: he's quiet.

Masen skates closer after awhile, this time jumping from the top of the stairs, landing back onto his board. I'm so scared for him, but I shouldn't be. He's amazing at this.

"Ready?" he asks. I nod, and he grabs his ratty backpack from a heap on the concrete, swinging it over his shoulder. I don't want him to know I'm ogling the muscles in his arms when he does, so I fuss with my hair, stealing a pencil from someone's bag to twist my hair into a bun. It's too hot with it down anyway. Without a word, he walks away, skateboard in hand. Guess that's my cue. I follow, falling into step beside him.

The silence is deafening and lasts for almost the entire trip home. I stumble due to my discomfort when he says, "Like your Vans."

"Thanks." I look down at my light blue shoes. "I've had them for a few years. They're comfy."

He stops at the end of the sidewalk and kicks up his white and black checkered shoe, saying, "Brand new. Had to buy new ones 'cause my feet got too big."

"Sounds like a personal problem," I say, then mutter, "but not a bad one to have." _I can't believe I just said that._

Desperate to recover I say, "I mean, 'cause you know what they say about men with big feet . . ." I suck at first impressions.

He chuckles quietly and glances my way while running his hand through his hair, pushing it back. His eyes are so bright, and I was right—sea green. He smiles and, wow, it's gorgeous. Come to think of it, he's gorgeous. It's really the first time I've seen him still, and I like still Masen.

I smile in return, and he looks away, almost as though he's ashamed. Was he upset about my crude comment? No, couldn't be. He laughed.

"I'm on Brooks, down this way," he says.

"Okay. See ya in school?"

"Yeah, sure." He looks down at his feet like they're fascinating and hops on his board, leaving me on the corner. I walk myself the rest of the way home.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Masen Days Outtakes can be found here: www . fanfiction s/7364652/1/Masen_Days_Outtakes.

A special thanks to my prereading/beta team. _ss77_ makes a great cheerleader and spoils me with her excitement about my stories. My betas Perry and Mac . . . what can I say about them? Without them this fic would be rife with boring verbs, missing a billion commas, and have oodles of unnecessary prounouns and prepositions. Perrymaxed, thanks for letting me borrow your words and getting me to flesh this out. Mac214, thanks for encouraging me without making me cry and teaching me grammar rules I've never even heard of.


	2. The Day I Stalk Masen

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Who Knows by Avril Lavigne

**Chapter 2: The Day I Stalk Masen **

I have a lot of friends in English class, which is nice. I end up sitting next to Masen—_Edward_ Masen. Who knew? He looks like an Edward but seems to prefer Masen, so that's what I call him. He visibly cringes when any teacher or student calls him by his first name. I wonder why.

We don't have any other classes together, but seeing him in English every day is enough to keep my mind buzzing. He's so interesting—from the way he scribbles in his notebook constantly to the way he flips his board around while floating through the air at The Wedge. But the thing that fascinates me most is his silence. Curiosity burns inside me, but I don't pry—not for his sake. I've seen him pull away from those who ask him too many questions. I don't want that, so I stay fairly quiet too.

I want to ask Angela more about him but don't want to give myself away. It's not like I have a crush; I just find him intriguing. He's an enigma. I like that.

I sit with Angela at The Wedge, watching the boys skate. There's a rumor that a skating exhibit will be coming to town. It's only September, but I've heard this four times since I arrived. It's never actually happened.

Nonetheless, if it did all of the local skaters would crash the set up in the middle of the night, trying to prove themselves kings of the local skate scene. The possibility of a turf war makes the boys skate with more gusto—more balls, if you will—and they're really banging themselves up to get into shape. It makes no sense. Well, it does, but come on.

Masen, though one of the better skaters, is even getting a bit roughed up. I gasp in horror as he attempts an aerial and skids on his left arm when he hits concrete.

Angela grips my knee. "He's tough. He takes a skate beating just fine. It's Embry you have to worry about. He's such a big baby, always asking me to kiss his boo boos better. Not that I mind or whatever." She kisses the air, punctuating her words, and I giggle at her silliness. My mind wanders, imagining what it would be like kissing Masen's scraped up arms. Not a bad image at all.

Masen has already mastered the aerial by the time Angela finishes her diatribe about Embry. His smile is satisfied beneath the shock of reddish hair. He should do this for a living. Skating, I mean. He's a quick study and has the tenacity to keep going even when he fails. I admire that. I wish I was more determined and passionate about something—anything.

The boys finish up, and Masen walks me to our corner, a habit that's developed. He still doesn't say much, but I don't mind. His familiarity has made me less nervous, but when I remember how attractive he is, it crops back up and makes me fidget. Today is one of those days, and it doesn't help that I was imagining kissing his forearms earlier.

I stumble on a pebble on the sidewalk, and he grips my bicep to steady me.

"Thanks," I say, looking anywhere but his eyes.

"Mmm hmm."

"How'd you know all about that Frost poem today? You're always drawing in English; I didn't think you were paying attention."

"Read it."

"Yeah, but you knew every nuance of what he was trying to say."

"It's all subjective."

"Did you study it before?"

"Some."

We pass a house with a barking dog, and I jump, shooting my hand out to Masen's, which I pull back immediately. He smiles, and then explains a bit more . . . probably out of pity.

"I like poems. They're . . . freeing." He shrugs.

"I can see that."

We reach our curb, and I don't want to say goodbye. I have to make dinner, and my father's going to ask me all sorts of dumb questions I don't want to answer. It's like he's trying to make up for all the years when I lived with Mom. His questions are exhausting. I'm just not used to it; Mom never hounded me like Dad. In fact, she never asked me anything. She talked so much about herself I could barely get a word in edgewise. Maybe that's why Masen's quiet nature doesn't bother me—it's refreshing, apart from the late nights I spend wondering about him.

He pops his board up and twirls it once, garnering my attention. I crouch and take in the artwork on the underside of the board. I know it's his because of the sketches I've seen. He doesn't use any color—just a black, thick marker.

The board's covered in creatures—androgynous, creepy pixie-like things, a crying unicorn that's been de-horned, and one voluptuous faerie. Swirls and descriptive words surround her curves—_aire, heavenly, innocent, ravenous, raging, beautiful liar_. There's something sad about it I can't put my finger on; I feel the same way about Masen. He has this intangible sorrow, and I find myself constantly leaning toward him to comfort him. But then I worry I'll inadvertently hold his hand or stroke his hair. I don't, though. He wouldn't like that. He seems to like his space, so I give it to him.

"These are really good," I offer before standing.

He shakes his head, his hair swinging out of his eyes, and looks down at his board. "They're just doodles." He's so modest.

"No, it's art. I like it. I think it says a lot about you."

"Like what?"

"Mmm, you're sort of a tortured artist, but you still have some hope and a love of all things voluptuous."

He grins and points to his chest announcing, "Boy." His expression is flirtatious, and it surprises me, a giggle escaping me before I can hold it back. I'm a dork. I don't care. Masen is cute and just admitted he likes boobs. That calls for laughter.

His eyes crinkle, like he finds me amusing. Well, good, he amuses me too.

I kind of want to ask him to dinner, but I don't know how Dad will take it. Plus, the thought of Dad harassing Masen with questions is painful. Then again, maybe my dad can get something out of him that I can't. It's an interesting idea, but one I'm not ready for.

Masen says a quiet goodbye, and we part.

At night before I fall asleep I think about the first few weeks of school and realize all of my favorite bits involve Masen. I'm fairly certain I was wrong earlier—I _do_ have a crush on Masen.

I try to keep my nerves in check the next day, not giving away my newly acknowledged infatuation. I'd never act on it. I can't believe Masen would be interested. He's too _something_ to have a girlfriend. I suppose I could just obsess over him like every other girl. Sounds good to me.

My stalker-like behavior begins bright and early in the school parking lot where I creepily follow Masen's every move as he skates. I sit in the cab of my truck eating a protein bar, pretending to know him better than I do. He probably has a room covered in his artwork, plays with his dog before going to school, and thinks about important things like politics and world hunger.

I throw my wrapper on the floor mat and decide I need a better view. Sitting in the back of my truck provides that, so I hop into the bed and pull out a notebook in order to look as though I'm studying. I'm not—not even close. Masen skates around, and I watch without being bothered for all of ten minutes before Angela interrupts me.

"Hey, girl," she says, taking a seat beside me.

"Hey."

"You get your response to the reading done last night?"

"Yeah, you?" Where is she going with this? Can't she just leave? I was fine watching Masen before she came. I like her, but I'd rather be ogling him. I knew I should've just stayed a wallflower. Then again, without Angela I wouldn't have met him.

"Not even close. Embry came over." She rummages through her backpack and offers me gum before popping a piece into her mouth. "That boy is like a walking testicle."

I stare blankly at her before she starts laughing. "You should see your face. TMI?"

"No, it's, uh, it's fine. I just . . . don't expect me to reciprocate, okay?"

"Okay. Anyway, he wanted to come over, and I had homework, but he was done with his, and he wanted to see me, and the next thing I knew he was sneaking into my window." She throws her bag behind her and lays her head on it, her arms folding on her chest.

"Angela?"

"What?"

"I don't mean to be rude, but do you have a point?"

"No, just, ya know, 'What'd you do last night?' talk. Why?"

"I didn't know if you were complaining or what? I'm not sure how to respond to that."

"Oh, respond however. It's just sex. It's like talking belts and deodorant to me. I'm not a slut, though. Only Embry. Whatever. No biggie."

"Okay."

She stays where she is, and I go back to pretending to study, though I lose my patience and start watching Masen again when he passes in front of my truck.

"He hasn't had a girlfriend since sophomore year."

"Who?" I ask, playing dumb.

"Masen. He only dated Samantha for about four months. She really liked him, but I don't think she knew what to do with him. He doesn't say much as you've probably already noticed since he walks you home every—"

"To our curb," I say, interrupting.

"You have a curb?"

"I just mean he doesn't walk me home. We just walk together to _a _curb and then part."

"Anyway." She clicks her toes together rhythmically, the sound of her Docs bugging me. "She kept talking to all of the guys. 'What does he say about me? Does he like Sophia? Does he like my shirt?' It drove everyone nuts."

"That would bug me too. I hate clingy people, and why's she so nosy? Masen likes his privacy."

"I know."

"Does she still go here?"

"Her dad got a job in Philadelphia the summer they broke up, and she moved. I really liked her; she had awesome tee shirts. She wasn't right for Masen, though. He needs someone . . ."

"Different. Someone who just gets him."

"Exactly. I think she's out there. I think there's someone for everyone, you know."

"Maybe." I peek up from my notebook, and Masen's looking at me. He drops his head soon after our eyes meet, and he kicks off again, skating side by side with Alec.

"I like your purple boots. Are they new?"

"Pshh, I've had these since the seventh grade . . ."

Angela rambles about her shoes, and I nod occasionally, but my attention is fixed on Masen. He moves so fast I don't register everything he's doing with his feet. I imagine for a minute what it would be like to be his girlfriend. Would I be like Samantha, constantly worried about what he's not saying? I hope not. I push the thought aside and focus on his movements.

His board runs the length of a curb, and he dives off the end, never losing balance. His lightness of foot and manipulation of his board make me wonder what he'd be like in bed—soft but still in control. That's my hope anyway. Not that it matters, but it's still fun to imagine. I do a lot of imagining throughout the day—about being his girlfriend and about being with him intimately.

I observe him from afar in the science wing and smile when a new expression plants itself on his face. Embry can get a reaction by saying something shocking, although the response rarely involves Masen speaking. I'd like to see him being playful someday.

By the time we're in English, I'm blatantly staring, no longer caring that he may find me out. It's not like he'd say anything about it. He might acknowledge it with some gesture, but I could handle that. It wouldn't be too mortifying.

My eyes rove over his face. His nose is slightly freckled, and his neck is long and lick-able. I follow the seam of his shirt sleeve and smile when it gives way to a firm bicep that I love to see flexed amid skating tricks. I wonder what it would feel like to have his arm draped over me.

Using both hands, he tucks his shaggy hair behind his ears, breaking my concentration. That's when I notice something odd—the top of his right forearm is bruised and scabbed over.

He took quite a few tumbles the day before, but if I were asked where he was injured I would have guessed the underside of his left forearm. It's quite curious because I'm generally very observant, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe he hurt both of his arms. Either way I'd happily kiss his injuries better. I'd happily kiss _anything_ better. I don't think I'll ever get a chance, though, since he doesn't talk to anyone, let alone me.

**A/N:** Masen Days will update Mondays. Leave a review and get a glimpse into Masen's mind through his notebook entry: The Day She Watches Me.

Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

My prereaders and Betas rock, and they are never mean to me, though sometimes I deserve a kick in the butt. _ss77_ cheers when I send her nonsensical poetry about little red shirts and stolen sandwiches. Her pom poms are awesome. Perry keeps me on track, letting me know when my characters are being stupid, and Mac shows her displeasure of all things cliché and bribes me to makes changes. I do so out of love and because I desperately seek her approval. Don't tell her that! But she did say, get this, "Your work is easy to edit. It's not even in the bottom half of hard edit jobs." Can you believe it? Not even in the bottom half! I love her!

I would be stupid not to thank Twitter peeps who are pimping me out. Jadapattinson, in particular, sent some traffic my way. Thank you! And thank you all for reviewing, alerting, favoriting, and following me on Twitter. I'm having so much fun in Team Edward Land.


	3. The Day Masen Borrows a Pencil

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** You and Me by Plain White Tees

**Chapter 3: The Day Masen Borrows a Pencil**

It's mid-October, and I'm working on a Macbeth test. Masen hasn't been in school for a few days. There's been a nasty cold going around, though it makes zero sense since it's still a bajillion degrees of sweaty hot outside. Whatever. I just hope he's okay. I've finished all the multiple guess questions and move on to the essay portion when he sits down next to me. He's disheveled, his hair wild. I think he might have a black eye, but I can't be sure. He sets his test down on the table we share and stares blankly.

I wonder what he's doing when I realize he has nothing on him—no ratty backpack, no pencil behind his ear, nothing. I tap my lips, studying him, and do the only thing I can think of: I pull the pencil from my nearly always present bun and place it atop his test booklet. He picks it up and balances it between two index fingers as though weighing it.

He swivels his head in my direction, his eyes catching mine for a second, and my suspicions are confirmed: he does have a black eye. His lips part slightly, as though he's going to speak. I wait patiently, though I'm dying to know what he'll say. In the end, he doesn't _say_ anything—only mouths, "Thank you, Bella," and it's the most sincere thing anyone's ever not said to me.

I sit next to Angela at lunch, who's chatting away about feminine hygiene. She switches the topic to Lipsmakers' flavors when Embry sits beside her. He gives her a hello kiss. They're sweet, but all the PDA makes the loneliness ache in my chest.

Embry argues that strawberry is much better than piña colada. I'm about to mention the fact that lips shouldn't have a flavor when Masen walks in, his shoulders slumped, hands shoved into pockets.

I say my goodbyes and saunter over to him. He doesn't look like he's in the mood to debate lip flavors. I wonder what _his_ lips taste like. I just want to help him in any way I can. Like kissing. Kissing could help.

I jerk my head toward a small table near the window. He sits and folds his arms, resting his head there. I take a bite of my pizza but quickly lose my appetite because he seems so lost, so alone.

"You gonna eat?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm not hungry. I have peet-zah . . ."

He lifts his head, propping his chin on his arms. He grins, and it's the happiest I've seen him all day.

"Really not hungry?" he asks, and I shake my head, pushing my tray toward him, nudging his arms in an annoying way until he sits up.

He folds the pizza in half and opens his mouth, placing as much of it there as possible before speaking around the crust. "Last chance."

I pop his hand with my fist to choke him. He laughs, then bites down, chewing enthusiastically. He must have been starving with the way he's eating. He finishes quickly and then eyes my apple.

"You're gonna have to beg or answer a question for it."

"I don't beg for anyone." There's an edge to his voice I've never heard before.

"Question, then?"

His expression is that of a frightened dog.

I slide my chair around the table and lift my hand slowly, trailing my thumb under his eye. "This is hot. Escape from prison?"

"Yep. *Tent City." He smiles, picks up the apple, and takes a massive bite.

"Nah, too boring. Maybe you got away from the big, tatted dude who wanted to make you his bitch. He got in a swing first though, huh?" I nod in mock seriousness like an old reporter trying to convince my audience that what I'm saying is interesting.

Masen shakes his head with a mouth full of apple. "Answered a question. You'll never know now."

I push my tray into his lap, snatching my apple from his hand and take a large bite before throwing it back.

**-MD-**

After school, I'm sitting in the bed of my truck reading. I don't want to go home because my dad's not at work yet. He's probably worried about my whereabouts, but I need some space. He's ever-present and hovers, which bugs, so I avoid him. Sometimes I just want to do what I want to do. Mom let me alone. I'm a responsible girl. Mostly. Wish my dad would trust me. He won't, but I suppose that's what happens when you become an active father overnight. I try to be patient with him but find I fail often and get snippy.

The parking lot's dead. When the gravel stirs, I lift my head, making sure the scary, rapist-looking janitor isn't coming my way. He isn't; Masen is. Maybe he could assault my lips. That'd be nice.

He looks kind of pissed. He's hot when he's mad—or shows any emotion, really. He's normally so mellow. Don't get me wrong—mellow Masen is fine, but an emotional Masen is fascinating and a bit sexy in a mysterious way.

He skates to my truck and jumps in the bed. His features soften when he lies at my side.

"Rough day?"

"Apple?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"You ate it." I turn toward him, my arm brushing his in the process. He purses his lips, and I want to lick them. I also want to ask what the hell is going on, but I don't. I wait for him to make a move, for him to say something, anything, but he won't. He never does. I've known him for awhile now, and I feel lucky if I get more than five words out of him. I wait for those choppy sentences with bated breath. It's quite pathetic actually.

"Stomach?"

"Bladder," I reply, thinking we're playing a game. Why not? Maybe I'll get to say nipple and see how he responds.

He props himself up and drops his head, laughing quietly. "You're weird."

"You're in my truck. Uninvited."

"Too bad," he says, maneuvering himself so that we're perpendicular. He rests his head on my stomach and props his feet on the edge of the truck.

"Ah. Stomach."

"Stomach," he repeats and closes his eyes.

I read with one hand and play with his hair with the other. It's soft, the waves springy. I tug at it playfully, and the corners of his lips pull up when I do. He's absolutely stunning when happy. I wonder if he's like this with anyone else. Come to think of it, I don't ever really see him interact with other people. Not really. The guys don't talk much.

I smile at the thought and allow myself to feel special while I get to play with Masen's hair. After an hour he gets up and motions for me to do the same. I do, and he reaches around, twisting my hair and shoving my pencil through it. The sloppy bun comes undone immediately, and he shrugs, adding, "Looks better down anyway."

He teeters his skateboard on the edge of the truck bed, grips its nose, and plummets to the asphalt below, leaving me behind.

**A/N:** *****Tent City is a jail in AZ where prisoners live outside in old military tents. It is hella-hot there, making the jail questionable.

Masen Days will update Mondays. Leave a review and get a glimpse into Masen's mind through his notebook entry: The Day I Start to Give In.

Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Prereaders make me giggle. Perrymaxed forced me to think about an outtake, and Anglea was rambling in my head for an entire day. Thanks for that. Mac214 continues to eat delicious foods and tweet about it, making me jealous. It's okay, though, 'cause she knows where my commas belong.

Twitter continues to surprise me with its copious amounts of pimps. KellyProvence, my newest pimp, sent some readers my way this week. And Whispered_Rob posted a little sumpin' sumpin' about Masen Days on The Fictionators. Thank you! And thank you all for reviewing, alerting, favoriting, and following me on Twitter.


	4. The Day Masen Makes PB&J

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** I'm Yours by Jason Mraz

**Chapter 4: The Day Masen Makes PB&J**

With the decreasing temperature and my rising obsession with Masen, I'm starting to like Arizona. The cool November air is nice on my face as I drive home from grocery shopping with the windows down. I make a left hand turn onto Brooks, Masen's street. I've taken to driving this road as often as possible on my way to and from—well, anywhere—hoping to catch a glimpse of my favorite redhead. So far, no luck. I tap my lips in disappointment when I hear the distinct sound of small wheels flying over sidewalk cracks. I'd know those sounds anywhere.

I stop at the end of the street and look both ways before turning, and then I see him; he's halfway down the block, skating like his life is at stake. I pull up beside him and honk, waving to get his attention. He comes to a stop just as do I. I have no idea what to say when he gets to my window. He's breathing hard and looks striking all worked up like this. Wow!

"Hey," he says, and I think it's the first time he's ever addressed me first.

"You were going awfully fast. You'll get a ticket." He gives my lame joke a courtesy smile. "Seriously, you late? You need a ride somewhere?"

"Nah, just needed to get away." He averts his eyes and peers over his shoulder. I look too, though I have no idea what we're looking for.

"I just bought some groceries . . ." Great. Like he cares. What other stupid thing can I say?

"Apples?" He props his arm up on the window ledge, resting his chin on his hand. He's smirking. Okay, maybe it wasn't so stupid after all.

"Yeah."

"All right." He shrugs, and there's a faint click of the lock being released. The next thing I know Masen's climbing into my car, and we're driving to my unsupervised home.

**-MD-**

Masen props his skateboard next to the front door before helping me carry the groceries inside. He quietly unloads the bags with me. We communicate through various humming sounds, pointing, and an occasional, "Where to?"

With the groceries stowed away, there's nothing to do. This is about to get really awkward, especially since Masen's not much of a conversationalist.

"Bathroom?" he asks, and I point it out, glad to have a minute to make a plan while he's gone.

My generic idea involves food. Everyone likes to eat, right?

When he returns, I cut up an apple to share, and he smiles when I hand him the first slice. We sit at the island, and I've never heard myself crunch so loud. It's embarrassing. I have to do something about the heinous noise I'm making, so I speak.

"My mom always used to slice my apples when I was in elementary school. She always gave me a container of peanut butter too. Ooh, that sounds good. Peanut butter?"

"Jelly?" he asks, pointing to the cupboard where he stored it.

"Yeah."

Before I can get up, he hops off his stool, pulls peanut butter and jelly from the cupboard, and scrounges around for a knife. I really like having him in my home, regardless of the bit of awkwardness we've had.

He points to a loaf of honey oat bread, and I nod, encouraging him. He surprises me by popping two slices in the toaster. Well, that's different. He smears one side with strawberry preserves and the other with peanut butter. He slices it into neat rectangles and slides it over to me.

With his forearms braced on the island and his gaze set on me, he says, "Try it. My specialty."

I squint my eyes as though this is serious business and take a bite, and, oh my stars, it's good. The peanut butter has melted, spilling out the sides and smearing over my lips as I eat. I lick it away.

He grins, looking so proud. "Good, right?"

I take a massive bite and speak with my mouth full: "Iffs deliffuffs!"

He laughs, and his eyes soften. I didn't realize until just then where he carries his sorrow or whatever it is; it's all in his sea green eyes.

I share my sandwich and apple with him, and we eat in silence. This time it's okay. The loud chewing becomes our entertainment as well as my moaning over the tasty treat he made. PB and J's are definitely a new favorite.

We're cleaning up our small mess when the garage door growls. Masen's eyes dart toward the kitchen door, which leads to the garage, then back to me. He's panicked, I think.

"It's just my dad," I offer to ease his anxiety, but that seems to make it worse.

"I'm gonna go. See ya at school," he says and bolts for the front door, closing it without making a single noise. I hear the telltale sounds of the wheels clicking on the cracks of the pavement almost immediately.

Dad plops his keys, wallet, and mail on the counter I just cleaned—well, _we_ just cleaned. I miss Masen already. I wish he hadn't taken off. I would've liked to have introduced him to my father.

"Hey, kiddo. Whose skateboard?" Dad asks, already with the questions.

"A friend's."

"A _boy_ friend?"

"No, not _a_ boy, _many_ boys. It's orgy Thurs-dee, duh."

Dad smacks my head with some junk mail. I flinch and feign a most grave injury.

"Oh, please," he scoffs.

"Exactly."

"I just want to make sure you're safe when you're here all alone. You're alone too much.

"I wasn't today. Besides, I have condoms. Mom gave me lots and lots of condoms."

"Are you trying to give your old man a heart attack?"

"Relax, Dad. We ate apple slices and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I saw more action when I was three and little Fat Franky wanted to play doctor."

"I knew that kid had a crush on you."

This is ridiculous. Dad gets my stink eye before I call it a night and retreat to my room.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

My team remains ridiculously cool. I wrote about them on my blog if you're interested. I've also begun writing outtakes (I blame Perrymaxed), so if there's anything you're dying for, please share.

AnIllicitWriter helped me set up some affiliates on Twitter, and I believe that exposure is making my reviews blow up. It's insane.

I truly appreciate every review, alert, favorite, and Twitter follow. I'm starting to recognize regulars and am getting to know some Edward girls. Thanks for making this so fun!


	5. The Day Masen Talks to Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Welcome to My Life by Simple Plan

**Chapter 5: The Day Masen Talks to Me**

It's my birthday on Sunday. I'm turning eighteen. It makes me feel so old and grown up, though I know I'm not. My dad reminds me of that everyday with his constant checking up. Dad wanted me to have a party, trying to guilt me into it by reminding me of how many he missed. No, thanks. I agreed to a birthday dinner—just me and him. This means he'll order pizza and get me a fancy IBC root beer to drink alongside his _beer_ beer. It'll be fine. I don't want a fuss.

But some people don't care about what I want. Angela showed up at my house yesterday to give me a present—feather extensions for my hair. She made me promise we'd put them on together. It doesn't sound too terrible. Truth be told, the only person I really want to spend my birthday with is Masen, but that's not going to happen.

I'm sitting on the linoleum, my back against the wall in E Hall. Masen sits next to me, quiet as ever. I rifle through my bag, pulling out my protein bars and a pen so I can doodle while I sit. I open my notebook and put pen to paper when Masen sets a pen down in front of me. It's sparkly and silver, and I love it.

"What's this?" I ask, a smile taking over my face.

"Heard you had a birthday coming up. Thought you could . . ." He looks up at my bun.

I pull the pencil from my hair immediately and rearrange it, setting the new pen in the pencil's place.

"I love it. Thank you."

"Happy birthday," he says, shrugging. His eyes look light today. I'm hopeful he'll have a good day. I try to make sure the time he has with me is positive anyway.

Angela and Embry join us on the floor as I hand Masen my extra Clif Bar. It's become a thing with us. There are lots of things between us, really. He took a bite one day and seemed to like it, so I've been bringing an extra ever since. He always devours it greedily, holding it with both hands and taking rather large bites. I wonder what he's eating at home.

His expression is thoughtful as he chows down. I wonder what he's thinking, but then my head is always focused on that. For a change, I voice one of my own questions: "Why don't you talk to anybody?"

"I'm talking to you."

"Yes, but—"

"Hey, Masen, let's go," Tyler interrupts. I'm not a huge fan of his; he always steals Masen to skate.

Masen stands and pops his board up into his hand. He leans over to pick up his ratty bag and says in a quiet voice, "And you're not just anybody."

**-MD-**

After school Angela and I are in the quad chatting. We have a research paper due before winter break. We've made plans to meet at the library to work on it when Masen and Embry join us.

"You wanna come tonight?"

"Doesn't every guy?" Embry asks, slinging his arm around Angela. She pushes him and rolls her eyes.

"We're gonna be at the library at six-thirty to work on Robinson's paper. Come if you want."

Masen shrugs and looks over at me.

"I'll bring snacks," I say and smile. He smiles in return. Angela gives me a knowing grin, only she doesn't _know_ anything because nothing is going on between Masen and me. Nothing whatsoever, not that I don't want it to. Go on, that is.

When I get home Dad gets his things together for work while giving me the third degree.

"So, when will you be back?"

"Um, about eight-ish? I dunno. We talked about getting a bite to eat after."

"With Angela?"

"Yeah."

"Not . . ." Dad says, wiggling his thumb toward the door where Masen's skateboard once resided.

"Well, maybe."

"Eight."

"Eight what?"

"You'll be home by eight on the dot, and you'll call me when you get home too." He laces up his boots while I try desperately not to say something rude, changing my curfew to five.

I turn and head up the stairs.

"What was that? Yes, Dad. That sounds like a great idea, Dad. Thanks for letting me go out at all, Dad. Why sure, Dear, that's what good fathers do: they create boundaries and expectations, and they love their little girls no matter how bratty their mothers made them."

I shout, "Yes, Dad," back down the stairs before entering my room. I can hear him laughing, low and throaty.

"I'll be home late." His keys jingle, the door creaks open, then a quiet, "Love you, Bells," and he's gone.

**-MD-**

I've been at the library for an hour watching Angela and Embry make kissy faces across the table, when Masen's checkered Vans come into view. My eyes follow up his loose jeans, spying the chain hanging from the back pocket. My shoulders relax now that he's here. I hadn't realized how tense they were until he arrived.

He drops his bag on the large wooden table and straddles a chair. It's like he wants as much distance from anyone as he can get. I wish he didn't want distance from me. I'd like to be closer to him in many ways.

We all work quietly on our papers. Angela and Embry take a break and return suspiciously happy. Embry's fauxhawk has been maimed. I shoot a look at Masen, and he quirks an eyebrow in response.

"We're done researching, so . . . bye." Angela leaves with Embry in a rush. I can't hold back my laughter, and Masen joins me. We get hysterical, tears streaming down my face as the librarian gives us a reproachful glare.

"She needs to get laid," he says.

"Maybe Embry can take a quick cat nap after Angela. He can do them both." We lose it again, laughing and holding our sides to keep ourselves together. It's the cutest thing watching Masen sigh through his giggles. He's adorable. He shifts in his seat and leans back, searching my eyes. "What is it about you?"

"What is _what_ about me?"

He says nothing, and I tap my pencil impatiently. I've never been a patient person, but he seems to need it. Unconditional patience or secrecy or something. So, for Masen, I manage. There's something about him too.

"My parents are drunks; Dad's worse than Mom," he announces.

"My dad's an overprotective freak, and my mom acts like a selfish teenager."

"I can't wait to get the hell out of here."

"Me too."

For some reason, we both know it's time to leave, though that's not what we were talking about at all. Clearly, we both have ambitions to leave Snobstale. We have to. We'll both be repressed here and die a painful death while living in an HOA, with two point five kids and a dog named Rexy. It would be most tragic.

We gather our things and walk closer than normal. It's nice being beside him, comfortable.

His board makes contact with the concrete immediately after exiting the library. My shoulders slump in defeat, sure he's going to jet off like he always does, but he doesn't. He holds out his hand to me instead.

"Don't skate," I say, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans, though I desperately want to hold his hand.

"Don't care."

I bite my lip and look at the road, scared to try, but something tells me I can trust Masen. Apparently I wait too long because he changes tactics, giving me sad puppy dog eyes and pouty lips. I stifle a laugh, which is difficult because this carefree side of his is making me giddy.

I want to give in, but also want to see what else he'll try. When I don't budge, he takes another approach. "I told you my parents are drunks. What else do you want from me?"

"Knee pads."

"I'll keep you safe."

"Promise?"

"Just hold on to me."

"Fine, but just so ya know," I grab his hand—glad that I didn't squeal like a little girl at the contact—put one foot on his skateboard, then the other, "I'm only doing this because you were mean, a sad puppy dog, and then used guilt to coerce me."

He leans in, his hot breath on my neck in the cool December air. "Don't care. You didn't bring any snacks." He places his free hand on my lower back, giving me a gentle shove, and we're off together.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

My girls are the bomb, yo. When they're not inserting all of the missing commas and deleting the excessive use of the word 'that', they're busy quoting Flight of the Conchords on Twitter. I heart them hard.

I come from writing wolf-pack, and while I felt very accepted there I've never had quite a response like this. I feel so honored that all of you are enjoying the story, craving it, and telling me so. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	6. The Day I Cut Masen's Hair

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Move Along by All American Rejects, Hands by Jewel

**Chapter 6: The Day I Cut Masen's Hair**

"That was so painful to watch." Angela covers her eyes and peeks through her fingers.

"It wasn't that bad," I say in mock defense.

"Yes, it was," Embry says, snatching a handful of my kettle corn. I pull away. He's not getting any; kettle corn is sacred.

"You had him falling all over himself."

"Hey," a familiar voice says. I didn't know he was going to make it. My night just keeps getting better and better: first, free kettle corn, and now, Masen's here.

I turn to see him: board in hand, beanie on head, hoodie zipped, adorable.

"Bella flirted herself into some free kettle corn, but she's not sharing," Embry gripes.

"Who says I'm not sharing?" I say, taking an obnoxiously large step over to Masen and holding out my bag to him. He grabs a handful and pops it into his mouth.

He jerks his head back in surprise, eyes wide, as though saying, "This is the best tasting thing ever."

"It's so good, right?"

"Yeah." He nods.

"Better than PB and J?"

He shrugs, making a face that clearly says, "No."

"What are they talking about?" Embry asks.

"I have no idea. Can we go now? It's cold just standing here." Angela doesn't wait for a response and wanders toward the giraffe exhibit. It's late night at the Phoenix Zoo. Most of the animals are sleeping, but we're here for the lights and music. Or so Angela said. Her mother got free tickets for Zoo Lights and gave them to her. She invited all of us. We weren't sure if Masen would show, but, at the last minute, he's here. And I couldn't be happier.

Angela is ecstatic and pointing out the light displays she loves most: a deer, a set of hopping frogs, elephants squirting water on each other. They're cute, but I don't really care.

Masen and I hang back a bit, letting Embry absorb Angela's glee. We walk side by side eating popcorn and pointing out lights to each other with fake enthusiasm.

"It's soooo beautiful," Masen coos in my ear, reminding me of _A Bug's Life_. Whether that's his intention or not, I'll never know because I cannot stop the over-the-top laughter that erupts from my body when I realize he's pointing at the sign for the Porta-johns.

He laughs with me, and we tumble into each other, spilling my popcorn, which refocuses me. "Hey, now. Watch the popcorn. It's precious." I give him a set of stern eyebrows, and his expression turns serious.

"Very," he says, but his tone makes me wonder if he's talking about me or my popcorn. I quite like it.

We catch the tram that tours the zoo, but the terrible off-key singing of the tour guide grates on my nerves as does the couple next to us making out. Trying to distract myself, I talk with Masen.

"How old are you?"

"Just seventeen."

"Just seventeen? What does that mean?"

"Well, you're eighteen, so . . ." I still have no idea what that means, but I press on.

"When's your birthday?"

"Summer."

"Mmm." We grow quiet, and the sound of sloppy kissing permeates the air around us. Embry and Angela are being so obnoxious with the PDA tonight. It's really making me uncomfortable since we're all squished together on the seat.

"Wanna get off on the next stop?" I ask, and Masen nods.

When the tram comes to a standstill I pat Angela's knee, and she comes up for air long enough for me to tell her we're going and not to worry about us.

Masen and I meander around the zoo and park ourselves on a bench on the Arizona Trail. We people watch, pointing out cute little girls with fluffy coats and fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders.

Masen lounges backward and stretches his arms out wide on the bench, looking toward the sky. "Too bad we can't see the stars. That'd be better than this."

"Yeah, too bad." A breeze sweeps through the area, and I shiver. It was six when I arrived and still warm out. I didn't think to bring my sweater into the zoo with me.

"You cold?" Masen asks, and I nod.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head in one motion and hands it to me. He drags his beanie from an arm hole and fiddles with the edges. I tug on his hoodie, pulling it over my hands. It's warm and smells like Masen and winter in Arizona, which, incidentally, is nice.

"Thanks," I say. He nods and leans forward a bit, toward me. I'm stuck, completely still, not wanting to ruin the moment. He's so close I can feel his warm, sweet kettle corn breath on my cheeks. He reaches out and slides his hat onto my head and smoothes it down, smiling.

"You look cute in my beanie."

"You look cute in your beanie too. Maybe it's the hat."

"Mmm, maybe." He purses his lips, then looks away. I'm dying to draw him into a kiss or sit on his lap or hold his hand—anything—but I can't. I have no idea how he'd respond. So far things have been going well when I let him lead the way, so I continue with that plan.

We sit in silence for all of thirty seconds when the tinkering sounds of "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" fill the crisp air. The lights wrapped around the palm and various mesquite trees blink on, taking turns on their notes, literally dancing to the music. The display is engaging and magical. It's almost as magical as watching Masen's eyes reflect the tiny lights. He's so beautiful inside and out. I wish I could make him see that. I wish I could tell him that, but I won't. At least, not today.

The music ends, and I raise my hands up to blow on them. I drop them to my knees, but Masen intercepts them, placing them in between his hands. He pulls them to his lips, breathes on them, then rubs them delicately. I'm certainly warm now. I'm warm all over.

He keeps my hands in his, head down. He plays with them, running a circuit over my palms and fingers with his thumbs. My insides squirm like mad with excitement. I smile inwardly at my good fortune and remind myself to thank Angela profusely for inviting Masen and me to the zoo.

We sit and listen to the music one more time before making our way home. He insists I drive us to my house. We stand outside my truck door, and I pull his beanie from my head. I place it on his, tugging it tight around his ears and fussing with it as long as I can, not wanting to stop touching him. He takes both my hands in his again, rubbing them and breathing his warm breath on them. "You'll be warm enough?" I ask, after he declines his sweatshirt.

"I'll be fine," he says, looking down at my hands. He cups them in his own and lightly presses his lips to them, I think. I can't be sure because I can't see. His head lifts, and his eyes lock with mine. "Goodnight, Bella," he says and takes his warmth with him when he skates away.

I sleep in his sweatshirt for the next four nights in a row, wondering what it would be like to sleep in his arms. I hope to find out someday, but, for now, this is enough.

**-MD-**

My TV channel is on the CW, but I'm staring at the blinking lights on my dying Christmas tree. Winter Break is boring. I haven't done anything fun since my zoo trip with Masen. I turn my attention back to the teen drama when banging on the door sends me skittering off my couch. I'm there in a second, wrenching it open. "Masen. Oh . . . are you okay?" He's bleeding. That much is clear.

"Phone?" he asks, pointing to the kitchen. I nod, and he moves around me as if his hair isn't matted in blood, there's not a gash on his forehead, and his lip isn't split.

I try to give him space by staying where I am. I also try not to freak out, but internally I'm a mess. What happened? Should I call the cops? No, he'd never speak to me again, but these injuries cannot be blamed on skateboarding. These are worthy of getting authority figures involved. I've seen the guys bruised up after a day of learning new tricks at The Wedge. This isn't average road burn. This is much, much more. I'm terrified for him but do my best to keep my tears at bay while listening from the living room.

"I want out. The sooner, the better. No, I'm done trying. She's stuck, I guess. It's her decision. I can't do this shit anymore. No. I won't. I won't! Yes, after graduation. No, that's fine. Okay. Thanks. Love you, bye."

_Love you?_ Who does he love? Who deserves so many words? Who takes care of him, loves him, better than me? No one I know.

Masen comes into the living room but doesn't look at me. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. He swallows thickly; the leather choker around his throat constricts.

I eye him curiously, trying desperately not to shout, "Talk to me!"

He opens his eyes like it's the most painful thing he's ever done, then exhales. "Do you have any clippers?"

**-MD-**

He sits on my toilet, his eyes level with my breasts. He cleaned up his face, but his hair is still clotted with blood. I'm completely nervous, but he's asked me to do this, so I will. I think I'd do anything he requested. He has this quiet power over me that I can't explain, but I love it. I'm desperate for it—for him, really.

"I'm not sure how . . ."

He takes the clippers from me and attaches a purple comb to it. "You can't mess it up. Trust me."

"I trust you."

"I trust you too."

He lowers his head and raises his hands, placing them on my hips. The intimacy of that motion alone is startling. He _does_ trust me, at least in some way, or he wouldn't have done that. That thought sends me into a frenzy. If he does trust me and comes to me in his time of need—which, clearly, he does—then we can move forward somehow.

I flip the switch. He keeps his head down while I sheer off his locks. I want to be sad, but I can't because he needs this. It seems important.

I make quick work of it, running my hand over his head to make sure I don't miss anything. It's hard to tell since his shorn hair is all over the place. "Um, I think we should wash it, so I can make sure it's all even."

Without a word he pulls his shirt over his head and kneels beside the tub. He starts the water and shoves his head under the faucet, scrubbing it with one hand.

I stand at his side, crouching over him, running my hands over his head as well. He wraps his free hand around my calf. The calluses on his palm prick roughly at my bare skin, but I like it. He's making so much contact tonight.

I finish up, and he lifts his head, water sluicing down his face onto his bare chest and back. He is the picture of depression, sorrow, and childhood lost. I want to drown him in my tears to put him out of his misery or hug him, but I can't. It's not my place, but I wish it were. I could offer him so much solace in my arms.

"Sit back down." He does as I say, and I pull the hand towel from the bar, running it over his head, then back and face, ending with his chest. "Looks good."

He looks up into my eyes, and I'm startled by the bright green and the depth of his gaze.

"You have beautiful eyes," I say, and he makes no move to show me that he cares about my compliment.

I'm cleaning the clippers when his hands grip my hips again. He twists slightly, forcing me to angle myself toward him. When I do, I'm met with a fierce expression and a gruff whisper, "You can see right through them, can't you?"

"I don't know. I just know there's so much there . . . in your eyes, I mean."

"Why do you care?"

"Masen, I—"

"I have to go," he says, standing abruptly, though his hands are still on my hips. He wraps his arms around my waist and draws me into an uncharacteristic hug.

"I know. It's okay," I want to say, but I can't. He's too fragile. It'd scare him away, so I wrap my arms around his neck to thank him for coming to me, for trusting me.

He clings to me, breathing deeply. He exhales his warm breath on my shoulder, making my loose hair tickle my neck. The energy between us shifts, and I want more than anything for his calloused fingers to return to my skin. My wish is granted when his hands move up my back and into my hair. He grips it in fistfuls, holding it taut. He moves his head subtly, dragging his nose over the side of my neck all the way up to my ear. He kisses me just beneath it and whispers almost imperceptibly, "Thank you, Bella." He releases me and without another look, swipes his shirt off the floor and leaves.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

SaintKristen left a great review this week. I thought her words were the epitome of Masen's character. So here's what you'd find in a Purelyamuse dictionary if you looked up Masen. _Masen: n. thoughtful with a little bit of awkward._

Special thanks to MyCleverAlias for pimping me on The Fictionators this week. The link is on the profile page and the blog. Also thanks to Cherryhilz who preread a portion of this in a pinch for me.

My prereader and betas put up with my endless additions and rewrites without complaint and sometimes even encourage it. They are gluttons for punishment.

This week's readalong by JaimeArkin was insanely successful, in my opinion, and even more important: fun! Masen Days gathered lots of attention in the form of story alerts, favorites, reviews, and a new prereader, DINX! Say, "Hi, Dinx!" Thank you all for participating and for spreading the word about this story. I never thought it would get this type of response, but I'm loving my interaction with all of you.


	7. The Day Masen Writes Vans Poetry

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews, The Little Things by Colbie Caillat

**Chapter 7: The Day Masen Writes Vans Poetry**

It's mid-morning, and I'm exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well lately. I'm folding laundry on my couch when there's a knock on the door. I'm not wearing a bra, so I pull my hoodie on quickly before answering. I'm so glad I did because Masen stands on my doorstep. It's been a few days since I've seen him. I've been a complete mess since our last encounter: quietly crying at night and hoping he's okay.

"Hey," I say, tipping my head and playing with the doorknob.

"Going to The Wedge . . . thought you might . . ." He throws a thumb over his shoulder, an unspoken invitation to join him.

"Um, I—I need to do laundry, and I haven't showered or eaten or anything."

Masen nods, bows his head, and turns it to the side, eyeing my dad's big ugly chair that sits on the porch.

"Do you wanna, um, come in? I'll make some breakfast, and we can, um, hang?" I really want him to stay, but I don't know if he will.

He drops his board and toes it, thinking it over.

"My dad doesn't get home until lunchtime today," I add, hoping that will convince him.

He looks up with a sad smile on his face. I open the door wide and throw my hand out in a sweeping motion. "You know you want to," I sing-song.

He chuckles, places his board just outside the door like the first time he was here, and enters.

"I'll be right back, and mi casa es su casa." I bolt up the stairs and rush through my routine, sans shower. Masen has either abandoned me or is absolutely silent; I haven't heard a single peep since being up here. Realizing ten minutes has passed, I back downstairs trying to keep my cool, hoping he hasn't left.

I enter the kitchen to the sight of Masen flipping a pancake. My smile is so wide. I'm not sure there's anything better than Masen in my kitchen making pancakes.

I stand behind him, get on tiptoe, and peer over his shoulder to see what he's doing. He swivels his head to the side and laughs through his nose at my goofy expression. "You didn't have to make anything," I say, taking a step to the side so I'm out of the way.

"You didn't have to change," he answers.

"Um, yeah, I did, and I had to brush my teeth."

He leans forward, sniffs, and wrinkles his nose in my face. I swat at him, but he jumps back, brandishing his pancake flipper like a sword.

"You're a dorky pancake pirate."

"So?" he says and, with a shrug, returns to his breakfast duties.

I set the table, and within minutes we sit down to pancakes a la Masen, which incidentally come with peanut butter. I've never tried it that way before, but it's delicious.

After our quick, and mostly silent, breakfast, we clean the kitchen together. I could really get used to this. I love having him around.

Masen dries the last dish and shelves it. I pat my belly and thank him for the breakfast. "You're welcome, but you fed me too," he says as he drapes the towel back over the oven door.

My eyes rove over his face, assessing his injuries from just a few days prior. The swelling has gone down, but the scabs are dark and raw looking. I edge closer to him, staying near the counter. I lift my hand slowly, seeking permission to touch him. He makes no move to pull away, so I continue. I run my thumb over his split bottom lip, then his brow where once a gash bled profusely in this very kitchen. "You're okay," I say, and I don't need confirmation from him. I know he is—for now.

He shrugs, and I drag my hand over his fuzzy head. He smiles and tips his head down so I can reach it better. I add another hand and finish by tugging on both his ears. "Did you give your stylist a good tip? She did a good job."

"Pancakes count?"

"Did they have peanut butter on them?"

"Of course," he says with a jerk of his head, as if he's appalled I would ask such a thing.

"Okay, then."

Masen tucks his hands in his back pockets and searches the room for . . . something. I don't know what. I don't want him to leave, but I have a feeling he will if I don't find a way to keep him here. Then again, I don't necessarily have to have him here. I just want to be with him. "You want to go to The Wedge now? I bet the guys are there already."

"Mmm." He waits a beat, tapping the toe-kick of the cabinet with his foot. "Maybe we could take a walk instead."

"A walk or a ride?" I ask, giving him a playful smirk. It feels like ages since we've flirted. It's so good to do it again, even if it's just through expressions and tone of voice.

"Either," he says, shrugging. I turn to enter the living room, and he follows. I pull on my sweatshirt and grab my keys.

"Well . . ." I say, looking back at him.

He copies my sweeping arm motion from earlier, and I exit ahead of him. He settles behind me with his board as I lock up.

He offers his hand, but I'm confused because we're on the porch, and there are steps. No way in hell am I going down steps on a skateboard. "You said you trusted me," he says, giving me his sad puppy dog eyes. Damn him.

"No knee pads?"

"Don't need 'em."

I twirl my hair into a bun and reach back to get my pen from my back pocket, but Masen beats me to it. He wiggles it in front of my face. I snatch it from him with a scowl and stick it in my hair. "Keep me safe," I say, glaring.

He nods.

"Don't drag me through the mud or whatever."

He nods.

"And don't—"

"Bella, get on the damn skateboard." Oh. Well, I didn't expect that.

I spin around in a huff and place my feet on the board while he steadies me and positions himself. With a hand on my waist and his breath on my neck, he whispers, "I promise not to hurt you," and we're off, and it's exhilarating.

**-MD-**

School starts back up when winter break ends, and Masen is mostly healed. People assume his injuries occurred at The Wedge. I listen to his responses and realize he never lies, only defers to their misconceptions. Since he's generally sporting bruises, they're not even all that interesting to the masses. It's his shaved head that creates copious amounts of gossip. The girls at school are upset about it, but I kind of think it suits him. Plus, I love being able to see his eyes so clearly. And, it seems, they look at me a lot. I like that.

We're studying persuasive essays right now, which is so elementary. Ms. Robinson seems to think we're all in seventh grade and need to know every facet of the writing style. She drones on and on about nothing of import, so I find something that interests me—Masen.

He writes in his notebook beside me. I've noticed the act so many times but have never seen his words close enough to know what it says. Part of me wishes I were sly enough to steal it, so I could read his deep thoughts. And, truly, they must be deep considering how quiet he is. Maybe that's where he keeps his heart—in his notebook.

I stretch out my right arm and use it as a pillow as I watch him sketch or write or whatever it is he's doing. He doesn't even look at me for a long while, but when he does, he's smiling. It's happy, content, and makes him look adorable.

"What?" he mouths. Clearly he's noticed me staring. Oh, well.

"Nothing," I mouth back, yet I don't change a thing about my behavior or my position. I continue as-is: gawking at Masen, wondering about him, and daydreaming.

Apparently, I daydream too long because I actually fall asleep. Masen wakes me by stroking my arm. I blink lazily and inhale deeply, the dark red fabric of my shirt rising with my expanding lungs. I feel oddly refreshed. I smile at Masen, who's staring at _me_ now.

His position mirrors mine, and we gaze at each other across the table. It's comforting having him look at me this way—like he knows me, like he trusts me.

"Hi," I mouth, and he closes his eyes and smirks, shaking his head against his arm. He opens them, wide with mischief. What on earth is he thinking? I'd love to know, so I ask. "What?" I mouth.

He waits a beat, trying my patience, then mouths, "Nothing."

He's so frustrating, but I wouldn't have him any other way. Or maybe I would. I mean, it's Masen, so . . .

After our boring lecture in English, Masen convinces me to ditch Anatomy and hang out under the bleachers. We sit on the dirt among discarded chip bags and soda cans, watching Tyler and Alec giggle as they light up. I'm surprised Masen refuses when he's offered a joint. I'm glad though. I'm not really a fan of drugs. People who do them become complete idiots.

They're talking about porn and who they would do if they could. The conversation morphs into MILF's. Just great.

"You know who's hot? Edward's mom, especially when she's tipsy," Alec says as Masen grits his teeth. Ouch. A mention of his drunk mother and the name he hates so much. Poor Masen. His mood has surely shifted from his happy-go-lucky one in English.

"Bet she's not hotter than my mom," I offer. They take the bait.

"Yeah, but is she easy?"

"She married a guy in his twenties. She's a cougar."

"She hot?"

"Am I hot?" I say, arching my brow.

"Yeee-ah," Tyler says, laughing. "All right, I'd do her."

I roll my eyes and place my feet in Masen's lap. He accepts them but pulls my pen from my hair before letting me relax. I use my backpack as a makeshift pillow, and Masen begins covering my Vans in ink.

When I return home and toe my shoes off, I remember that Masen had them in his hands. I hold them up and try to make out his work. There are a lot of pictures of eyes, decorative curly cues and dots leading to nowhere, but, mostly, there are words. Lots of words.

One passage, in particular, catches my eye. I read it slowly, taking it in.

_Open, authentic, debilitating. On my board, in my head, in my hands. Will she? Will I? Maybe never. Wanting._

I breathe deep and hug my shoes to my chest. This is ridiculous. I just have to tell him how I feel. I have to. It's getting to be too much. Someone has to take a chance, or nothing will ever happen.

I steel myself, pulling my cell from my bag and dial his number. I've had it for ages but have never used it.

"Hello?" his mother's whiny voice answers the phone, and I'm stunned into silence. "Hello? Is this Alice? Listen here, bitch, he's not going to California, okay?"

"Um, hi, Mrs. Masen?" It comes out as a question because I'm terrified of this woman. For all I know, she lets her crazy, drunk, bastard of a husband beat up on her kid.

"Who is this?" she rasps.

"This is Bella. I'm in Masen's English class. Can I talk to him?"

"So stupid. Using his last name. Edward! Phone!" Her scream makes me pull away from the phone, but I'm back on quickly when I hear his voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Masen."

"Hey."

"Listen, I—you wanna go somewhere? The Wedge, maybe?"

He's quiet, not answering. I'm worried about his hesitation and silence. It's exhausting at times waiting for his words.

"Don't really wanna be around people right now."

"Oh, okay. That's fine."

"No, not . . ." He exhales heavily, then speaks again. "You know the golf course on Hayden?"

"Sure."

"Meet me in ten?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

**-MD-**

We sit beneath a large tree that's out of range, so to speak. Its limbs hang low, giving us some cover, hiding us from anyone who might be playing; though it's late and the course is shut down for the night. We roll a golf ball back and forth. _Catch. Release. Catch. Release._ Although my mind is always keyed up around Masen, being with him like this is soothing. I hope he feels the same way. He seems to need some peace in his life, and I'd like to offer him some.

"Come here often?"

"Use cheesy lines often?" he quips, and I stick my tongue out at him, then toss the ball instead of rolling it.

"A bit. To get away. Be alone. Think. You know, the usual."

"The usual—seducing girls under trees with your balls."

"If you say so." He smirks and rolls the ball back.

"Your mom's interesting. Accused me of being someone named Alice and trying to bring you to California."

"She's an idiot," he says, and he grasps the ball and pockets it before lying on the grass. Crap. He's pulling away, and I didn't even get any information. Who's an idiot? His mother or Alice? Not that I know who that is. Maybe he'll tell me if I ask, but I'm not going to ask now. He'd up and disappear on his skateboard, leaving me on the green.

He wraps his hands behind his head, using them as a pillow. Suddenly I have a brilliant idea and blurt out, "Stomach?"

"Appendix."

"Dick."

"Ball," he says, pointing out either his ball or his balls.

"Did you have a ballectomy?"

"What?" he asks, laughing.

"You said _ball_. I just assumed." I make scissor motions with my fingers.

"You know what they say about assumptions."

"I'm not even going to start talking about asses."

"Fine," he waits a beat then adds, "Stomach."

"Stomach." I lower myself, resting my head on his stomach.

Masen pulls the pencil from my bun, saying, "That's not my pen," before throwing it. I smack his stomach, and he oofs but recovers quickly, running his fingers through my hair.

"Masen?"

"Yeah?

"I liked what you wrote today on my Vans."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Do you write poetry often?"

"Yeah."

"In your notebook?"

"Yeah."

"Do you write about me often?"

Masen hesitates, then answers quietly, "Yeah."

"Is it good?" I reach above my head and find the fingers of his free hand. This is nice.

"Yeah."

"Can I see it someday?"

"Yeah."

"Masen?"

"Yeah?"

"Are _you_ any good?"

"Wanna find out?"

I lift my head off his stomach, the ends of my hair brushing my shoulders. There's something about his expression I can't read, so I lean in a little more. Nope. He thinks I can see right through him—he's said as much—but he's still a mystery.

He purses his lips and props himself up. We're inches apart, staring at each other, our eyes sweeping around each other's faces. We both lean in, and when I'm right there, I can't help myself and say, "You were supposed to say yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I say, and our lips finally touch. They move slowly, back and forth, playing a game of catch and release on their own. Masen startles when I lick his lips open. Our tongues touch, and my stomach hollows out, making me feel like I'm floating. I'm about to wrap myself around him when I'm hit with a stream of water. Masen swears under his breath, and we both laugh, jumping to our feet, running out of the sprinklers.

He walks me home and chooses, for some odd reason, not to kiss me goodnight. I shuffle upstairs in despair but don't let it get the best of me. I decide to confront him before English the next day, but I can't because when he shows, he's nursing a hurt shoulder and some scraped knuckles.

At lunch he pulls my feet into his lap and gets poetic on my Vans again. When I get in my truck after school, I read his words. _Worry, fear, mistake. Unraveling world of mine. She must stay sewn together. Forgive me._

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Masen Days will be featured on The Lemonade Stand this week because I have the best readers ever! 100 of you voted for Masen Days. Thank you! It is so fun interacting with all of you through fanfiction, facebook, and twitter.

My prereaders and betas keep me honest, and one in particular begs me for outtakes. I love you all. And, Dinx, I'm sorry for the wait. You're a trooper. Thanks for joining the team!

I celebrated my 32nd birthday on Saturday. On a whim I asked Abstract Way, author of Animate Me, what her Edward would put on a coffee cup for me. This is what she said, "Ed would have a sexy pose of you speeding circles around the cup on your skateboard – and Masen chasing after you!" I'm officially in love with her, and if you're not reading Animate Me you should. Super sweet Edward!


	8. The Day Masen Ruins Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** You Wanted More by Tonic, Hello by Incubus (cover)

**Chapter 8: The Day Masen Ruins Me**

I'm sitting on a metal folding chair alongside Embry and Masen. We're in an old folks' home in Sun City. The smell of canned green beans and floor wax tickle my nose, and I can't shake the odor—it's driving me insane. Angela's singing for the jazz band tonight. I didn't even know she was a singer until she invited me . . . and Masen.

Masen's been keeping his distance since the night on the golf course two weeks ago. Not physical distance—he's around me—but emotional distance, I guess. He's speaking to me like we just met, which really isn't all that different. But it is. I know it is. I don't like it. He's pushing me away, though I see a smile in his green eyes when he says _yeah_ to me. And I feel a flicker of hope.

I'm hoping for a flicker tonight . . .

When I picked up both boys at Embry's, Embry insisted that Masen sit next to me. The tension was insane, and Masen played with the wheels of his skateboard the whole way. By the time we got to the rest home my eye was twitching, and I wanted to break his skateboard. Alas, I did not.

Embry was a chatty Cathy when we got there and sucked a little old lady into a conversation. By the time he sat down, Masen and I were already seated next to each other. Never in my life have I felt so awkward.

Masen picks at his fingernails, and I count ceiling tiles while we wait for the performance to begin. I don't think it could be any worse than this.

The curtain opens, and the director introduces himself and the band. They start playing music from the Big Band era, and the crowd goes wild. I do too; I've loved this style of music since I was a little kid. Grandpa Swan was always disappointed I never played the clarinet. I think he wanted me to be the next Glen Miller.

White hair is flying everywhere, and little frail ladies whoop and holler. I guess they're not so frail after all. I hope I'm the same way when I'm older.

A wild song dies down, and a ballad begins. Angela steps on stage, looking like a 1940's goddess in a teal dress with a giant flower adorning her head. Her voice is like satin, pouring over the crowd. She eyes Embry, points at him, and winks. Masen turns to me suddenly and laughs, like he can't stand it. I bust up too and slump onto his shoulder in a fit of giggles. We would never be that way. But then I remember that we will never even have the chance to be _any_ way because he won't allow it, so I sober up, resuming our awkward silence. It's awful.

My depressed state continues even when the music picks up in mood and speed. Geriatric couples start folding up chairs, so they can dance around the squeaky floor in their white walking shoes. Embry jumps to his feet and grabs my forearm pulling me up. "Come on, you're all I've got."

"I'm not—I don't—"

"I'll lead. Just tell me how good it was afterward." Embry flashes a lascivious smile and drags me onto the makeshift dance floor.

Oh, goodness.

Eyes are wide all around us, and old couples grin like they have dementia when they see us dancing together. And I must say, Embry can dance. I'm thoroughly baffled by this, but I guess I shouldn't be. The way he moves his body on a skateboard has proven to me that he's agile. All the guys are. I wonder idly if Masen can dance, feeling a bit sad that I'll probably never find out. Embry whips me around like I weigh nothing and even gets me to do a flip. I'm not even sure how it happens, but it's so fun and improves my mood.

The soft strains of "I'll Be Seeing You" begin, and Angela's voice is low and sultry. Embry stays latched onto me for a bit but then excuses himself to dance with a "lonely Betty." I stand alone on the dance floor feeling quite dumb. I spot Masen sitting against the wall, picking at the sole of his Van. It's starting to fall apart from the looks of it. I frown at the state of his shoe, and my eyes flow up naturally to his face. His eyes are on mine, looking curious. He's staring at me one second; the next he's on his feet, shuffling toward me.

No words are spoken. No words are needed. That's the way it is with us. It's beautifully quiet yet still meaningful. I fit into his arms and he in mine. I'm so close to him but not close enough. It hurts. We sway just the right amount to call our movement dancing. There's no twirling, no fancy footwork, but what we're doing is so much better than any of that. We're doing what we always do—we're connecting.

We're silent as we dance, listening to the sad lyrics of longing and love lost.

Angela's voice carries through the final note. Applause fills the air, and our soft swaying comes to a stop. Dancing is so intimate. I'd say it's almost as intimate as hand holding, so I'm sort of shocked by his bold move, his sudden change of behavior. I'm not complaining at all, though. I welcome it. I run my hands over his neck and down his chest, resting them on his pecs. I lock eyes with him, saying, "Thanks for the dance."

He nods and gently pulls my hands from his chest, letting them go. They fall limply at my sides. I want to cry, but I can't. Not here. I'm about to turn and leave when he speaks up in a timid voice. "You looked like you were having fun out here, so . . ."

"It was okay. Embry's too tall for me, though."

"I'm pretty tall," he says, bouncing slightly, staring at his feet.

"No, Masen, you're perfect for me."

He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't look at me. I desperately want him to.

I cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes and hide out in the game room until the concert is over. Embry gets a ride with Angela, so it's just Masen in my truck on the way back to Scottsdale. It's the first time I've driven him home, and I'm actually surprised he's allowed it. I wonder why that is. When we arrive in front of his house, I'm reminded of my first impressions of it. I was sort of shocked by how normal it looked. I guess I expected something dilapidated, but that's not the case. It looks no different from anyone else's home, but it certainly is.

I suppose the same goes for Masen. On the outside he's just a normal teenage guy. But the truth is: he's not normal. His life is so very different from the average high schooler's. It breaks my heart thinking about the reasons behind his uniqueness. But the fact that he's different doesn't matter to me. I'm here to stay, hanging on for all it's worth. Because I believe he's worth it.

He gathers his things while the engine idles, and I say a soft goodbye. Masen exits; he holds the door open and looks up at the bright moon. I follow his gaze and know exactly what he's thinking. The lyrics from the song we danced to earlier haunt me as well. He peers back over his shoulder, saying, "See you, Bella."

I cry all the way home.

**-MD-**

I'm in a total funk for several weeks. Even my mom notices and sends me a get well package full of stationary and stickers, so I can write her letters. She's so silly.

I write to her while at The Wedge. I'm watching Masen but trying not to, hence the distraction of the letter. Stalking him is such a hard habit to break. Glancing his way occasionally, my letter takes a turn, and my sloppy cursive becomes a note to him instead. Dammit.

I give up and focus on the boys. Masen's teaching Tyler a trick. Tyler goofs up, catching Masen's foot when they're airborne. They both crash to the ground and skid. It's painful to watch. I can't do it anymore, so I say goodbye to Angela and leave. My heart hurts; I don't bother saying goodbye to anyone else.

I walk slowly, taking the long way. When I'm a few blocks from home, the clacking of wheels on the pavement echoes behind me. I don't need to turn around to see who it is. Why does he have to be so sweet? Why won't he give us a chance? Doesn't he know we're better together? Doesn't he know I'll help him? Doesn't he know I'm strong enough to deal with whatever garbage he's dealing with? Based on his actions, I guess not. I wish I could tell him—maybe send him my letter—but I won't. I don't think he'd listen anyway. He's already made the decision. Without me. Which totally bites.

The following morning Masen and I arrive at school at the same time. We share a soft smile, and he opens the door for me. We sit on the floor and chat with our friends before the bell rings for first period.

He's squirming around across from me, wincing and fiddling with his belt. As he adjusts it, I get a glimpse of his abdomen. It's covered in dark, ugly, fresh bruises and is scraped to high heaven. I know I saw him fall yesterday at The Wedge, but something tells me there's more to it. But maybe there's not. I'll always be suspicious now, I guess. I wish he would tell me more about his home life. I wish he would sit next to me and hold my hand so I could squeeze it and tell him it's okay. I wish a lot of things.

I push my bag across to Masen, and he catches it. "In the front," I say, and he opens it, pulling out a Clif bar. Thank goodness he still accepts something from me. "Apple too," I add. He nods, opens up the wrapper, and devours the protein bar.

I throw caution to the wind and move to sit next to him. He leans to the side and rests his weight on his hand. I move in closer too; our pinkies are touching. It's all I've got. It's all I can hold on to right now, so I take advantage.

He pulls out the apple, and I interrupt him before he starts eating. "Bite?"

"Yeah," he says, smirking and holding the apple out for me. I wrap my hand around his on the apple and take a large bite, watching him. He shakes his head while I chew and keeps his eyes on me until I swallow. That one _yeah_, that one smirk, make flickers of hope fly rampant in my brain. I want more, but I don't know if I'll ever get it. Flickers are all I have, so I cling to them. But the more I cling to them, the more my depression subsides, and the more my irritation grows. Something's got to give eventually.

**-MD-**

I'm at The Wedge, waiting to go to Alec's annual spring break party. It's Saturday night and hot, even though it's March. Arizona is dumb. Know what else is dumb? All of the stupid bitches that surround Masen as he approaches me. These girls are from all over the place since everyone's out of school. They seem to flock to our skater haven to score some weed. I just hope they're not here to score with Masen, but it sure looks like it.

Luckily, he doesn't talk to anyone but me. Or, at least, he used to. He sends me a sad smile when a stranger with red lips wraps her arm around his waist. He drops his board, sweeping low to pick it back up. He never drops his board. He did it on purpose so he could ditch this girl's claws. I feel a flicker.

Masen finally reaches me where I sit on the concrete steps. The red-lipped bitch no longer has her arm around his waist—thanks to him—but that doesn't keep her from tagging along. Some people just don't know how to take a hint. She stands to the side awkwardly as Masen sits next to me. He nudges my leg with his. I nudge back, and he rubs his knee, faking an injury. The stranger laughs, and Masen chortles with her to be polite. It's annoying. Rage bubbles up inside me, and I realize flickers are stupid. I can't keep hurting myself for a flicker. Plus, my patience is waning. It has been for a long while now, and I'm not sure if I can handle all this anymore. Maybe the product of drunkards for parents that beat him is not it for me. Maybe there's something else for me out there. Someone else, even.

"Where's your bun?" he asks, and I'm confused because, what? Now he's talking to me? It's been weeks since he's addressed me casually like this.

"Huh?"

"Bun." He wraps his hand around my ponytail and shakes it. I swat his hand away, and he chuckles. I hate his good mood. "What if I need a pencil?"

"Bring your own damn pencil."

"I don't want my pencil. I want yours. Smells good," he says with a tiny nod.

"You can't have mine."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I need it for my hair."

"Just wear it in a tail thing."

"Tail thing," I mutter, narrowing my eyes. He shrugs. He's so irritating. And what's with all the talking? He can't just turn this on and off. I'm not a damn light bulb, just waiting to be lit or whatever.

"Angela!" I holler, and she skips over to me with Embry in tow, skipping as well. I really hate them sometimes.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," I say.

Masen nudges my knee again, and I pull away. No _yeah_ jokes today, buddy.

"You coming, Masen?" Embry asks.

"Apparently not," he says, dryly.

Embry shoots a look from me to Masen, and I glare back.

Angela, Embry, and I walk to Embry's suburban, and Masen follows us, skating around in circles and irritating the piss out of me. I'm about to scream, "Just stop it!" when a loud shriek startles us all, including Masen who careens off his board onto his ass. I can't help myself and fall into a fit of laughter at his expense. He deserves it.

I'm still laughing when he gets up, and a cute waif of a girl throws herself around him, legs and all. "Edward! Oh my stoner, I missed you." She peppers his face with kisses.

In reply, he offers, "I missed you too, Alice."

_This_ is why he's in a good mood? You've got to be kidding me.

Wait a minute . . . Alice? Mrs. Masen's Alice? California Alice? Oh my gosh . . . _the Alice!_ Holy hell!

I head straight to the suburban, get in, slam the door shut, and get buckled. The ride to Alec's is tense. Angela tries to ask me if I'm okay, and I say something about a ballectomy and Vans poetry. Embry snickers from behind the wheel. I'm so glad we're the only ones in the vehicle. Masen has ruined me. I'm a moron now.

Alec's party turns out to be pretty fun. His parents have an outdoor Jacuzzi and a garage that's been converted into a game room. It's equipped with foosball, darts, table tennis, and a few full-sized arcade games. I'm actually enjoying myself when I hear Masen laughing. What the hell? A, why is he here? B, when did he get here? And C, he doesn't laugh with anyone but me.

I want to leave, but before I can, he's in the game room with me . . . and her. Alice.

She's even prettier up close. She has dark eyes and dark hair. Her funky sense of style and wide smile make her look welcoming and authentic. Well, shit.

"This is Bella," Masen says without even saying hi. That's rude.

I look at Alice and size her up. She's tiny. I could totally take her. Better put my hair up just in case we throw down. I don't want her to pull on it. I tug the tie out, fastening it to my wrist, then wrap my hair up in a bun and look around for a pencil. I find a carpenter's pencil near some tools and cram it into my hair.

"Yay, a bun," he says.

Yay? What an idiot. I can't let it go. "I thought you liked it down," I say, looking pointedly at Alice, like, _"Hey, bitch, he likes me, okay? Back off."_

"I did. I do . . . I like it both ways." Masen looks repentant. Oh, no, you don't.

"I'm Alice," she says, her smile friendly. I hate her.

"Don't care," I say and start to walk away. I'm such a jerk, but I can't just stand here and watch him with this girl.

"Edward's told me a lot about you." I swing back around to face her.

"Yeah, well, _Edward_ should spend more time telling you about himself because he hates that name."

"He doesn't care if I use it. We go way back. Right, Edward?" She reaches out for him and holds his hand in both of hers. Masen shrugs awkwardly. I scan his face to look for disgust at her use of the name and can't find it anywhere. He's really not bothered. In fact, he's not bothered by her at all.

"Whatever," I mumble and leave the room, hoping to find a distraction, any distraction. My I-hate-Alice haze has ruined everything, though, because the people I normally hang out with don't even appeal to me now. Not even Angela and her fuchsia fishnet stockings can bring me out of this funk, so I seek solitude instead.

I sit out back and watch the usual stoners get baked. I wish I were into pot. It would make my misery so much easier to handle right now. I draw my legs in, making an uncomfortable heap of them on the tiny chair. I'm inspecting my red, chipped toenails when I hear Masen laughing again. Dammit! He and Alice walk around the side of the house, holding hands and smoking. He takes a drag of a joint and holds it to her lips afterwards.

I grumble loudly and attempt to stand, tripping over my own feet and crashing to the floor. Masen curses while running my way. "You okay, Bella?"

"No. I'm not okay, _Edward_."

He cringes at my use of his name, and it's as if he's slapped me. He may as well have.

"My elbow hurts," I say nonsensically and hurry for the back door so I can get out of here.

"Elbow?" he says, giggling. It's almost cute. Almost.

"Elmo?" Alice asks.

Masen retorts with, "Snuffalufagus," and they both double over with laughter. I hope they lose actual brain cells from this experience.

I make it home by flirting with a boy in my government class. I can't stand him. He's always staring at my breasts. But he has a car and agrees to drive me home, so I let him. My dad opens the front door when we pull up and, for once, I'm grateful that he's so overprotective and nosy. I really would've hurt this guy if he tried to kiss me or cop a feel.

I say goodnight and head to bed after I clean myself up and get in my PJ's. I'm on the verge of sleep when my dad knocks on my door lightly and opens it up. "Bella, there's some guy at the door. He says he's going to sleep on my porch if I don't wake you up."

Oh no.

"He has a skateboard."

"So?" I grumble, getting out of bed and slipping my Vans on.

"Is this _that_ guy?"

"Yeah."

"He smells like weed," my dad says in irritation before shutting the door to his bedroom.

This day completely blows.

I head downstairs ready for battle.

I open the door to find Masen rocking back and forth on his feet, gazing at them as though they hold the answers to all the questions in the world. He looks up; his pupils are dilated. He looks creepy. I miss his pretty green eyes. I miss _him_.

"What?" _Bitchy._

"Where'd you go?"

"Home."

"You're mad at me."

"No shit."

Masen bites on his fingernail and looks me over. I'm wearing a tank top and sleep shorts. It's the least he's ever seen me in. His eyes have a trace of mischievousness to them, but I couldn't care less. This is not a time for flirting.

"Take a walk?"

"No."

"I wanna talk."

"I don't."

"Bella."

"Edward," I say, mocking his tone.

He closes his eyes and whispers, "Please don't say that." He looks ashamed or like I just killed his puppy.

"Oh, but Alice can."

"That's different."

I fold my arms over my chest and wait for him to spill, to tell me all about Alice and whatever else he's been keeping from me, but he doesn't say anything. He never says anything. How can someone go through life being that quiet all the time? It makes no sense. I just want to strangle the words out of him. It makes me livid that he won't explain himself. What is wrong with him?

"Are we done here? I'm tired."

"Yeah." I see the faint hint of a smile and want to smack it off his face. I'm just so…so pissed.

He takes a few steps back, and just as I think he's about to hop onto his skateboard, he asks me for my Vans. Whatever. He's so stupid. I pull them from my feet and drop them to the floor. I go inside and leave him for once. It feels good. It does. Sort of. Except that it doesn't, and it sucks.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Masen Days was featured on The Lemonade Stand last week. OneBraveLamb did an amazing review that is now linked on my profile page. You must read it if you haven't already. She was thoughtful in her descriptions of what it's like to be a reader of this story. Thanks, sweets!

A quick thanks to Sabriel017 and Abstract Way for renaming this chapter and helping me choose a notebook entry title.

My prereaders and betas keep me laughing on twitter, they know how to spell dementia, they encourage my fixation on Masen, and they continue to help me even when I use the same phrase about ten times in one chapter. I love you like I love Xanadu, girls!

I've recently published a post regarding a Masen Days playlist. I blame MyJaxTeller and OneBraveLamb for bringing my attention to Bella and Masen's anthems. If there is any song that reminds you of this story or these characters please let me know in your review, pm, or in the blog post's comment section. I'd love to hear it. Hopefully, I will have a live playlist up and running on the blog shortly.

A special Happy Birthday! to Singlegrlmusing from Masen: Helpful and sweet, sharing all she knows. Her taste is sharp and cuts to my heart. Better than a peanut butter cookie.

I have surpassed any and all personal records regarding alerts and reviews, and I continue to be astounded by the amount of readers Masen Days has. I'm so happy about that! I do worry that eventually I won't be able to keep up with replies. It would be blessing and a curse if that should happen, but just know that I will always do my best to respond to you. If I get a little lazy in my spelling or start to write in text acronymns, please just know it's because I want to chat with each of you, not because I'm too stupid to know that it's tacky!

I can't express enough thanks to my readers. This story expands each time I post a new chapter. You have no idea how your thoughts and reflections on this story can change or develop it. I thought it was all written, betad, done. I was wrong. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. And thank you for sharing your very personal reactions to this story, in particular, Masen's story. I hope that if you or someone you love is being abused in any way that things will take a turn for the better. There's enough hope out there for everyone.


	9. The Day Masen Babbles

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist: **How Far We've Come by Matchbox Twenty, Under Control by Parachute

**Chapter 9: The Day Masen Babbles**

It's Monday, and spring break is officially over. So is my life, or so it seems.

I'm eating cereal when wheels grinding on asphalt make my heartbeat pick up. Really? It's so early. I can't deal with this. Not now.

Before I finish my cereal, there's a faint knock on the door. The blinds clang against the window, and I can only imagine Dad's expression when he sees who it is. He clomps to the kitchen, saying, "That porch guy do something to you?" He's so annoyed; I can't blame him. I'm annoyed too.

"No," I say around a mouth full of food. It's true—he's done nothing to me . . . except rip my heart to shreds.

"He clearly wants something. Persistent little bugger."

"I don't know what he wants." So true. I groan like a brat as I drag myself to answer the door. My dad retreats to his bedroom. The thing about my dad—even though he's strict, he gives me privacy. Mom did too, but for totally different reasons. Dad's being thoughtful, and I like that. Maybe I've been too harsh and should spend more time with him.

I open the door slowly because facing Masen is the last thing I want to do this morning. He's standing on my porch. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. At least this time he's not stoned. "Hi," he says, his smile forced.

"Hi, _Edward_." I'm such a bitch.

His posture crumbles; he bows his head and chews on his lip while nodding.

"Want to walk with me to school?" he asks, all nerves and downward cast eyes.

"I'm taking my truck," I say, reinforcing that I am, indeed, a bitch.

A shadow of a frown crosses his face before he responds. "'Kay. Wanted to . . ." He swings his backpack around the front and drags out my Vans, fumbling with the laces and getting them caught on the zipper of his bag. It's so pathetic, but I'm kind of enjoying it. A little bit.

He hands them to me. They are absolutely covered in ink, way more than before. Even the soles have writing on them. I throw them on the floor without looking at the words. I can't. Not yet. I'm capable of a quick _bye_ before shutting the door in his face. I'm actually surprised I'm so civil. What I really want to do is scream and yell and push. But I'd never. Not to him, anyway.

During the rest of my morning ritual, Masen hovers close to my house. On the sidewalk. In the street. On the neighbor's driveway. He's just there . . . waiting. For what? And do I care? Not really. Not unless he has something to say about Alice. But he never has anything to say about anything, so today I don't care. I'm choosing not to care. Except that I sort of do. Only sort of.

He waves goodbye when I come out and begins the steady push of his right foot, skating toward school. I pass him quickly in my truck, but at a stoplight he gets ahead of me. In the end, I beat him to school, feeling stupidly smug for my accomplishment. When I saunter by him on the way to class and he's sitting on the floor—his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed—I'm reminded of the night I cut his hair, and my heart aches. Suddenly, I don't feel accomplished at all.

At lunch he asks if I read my shoes, and I shake my head. He doesn't try to talk to me for the rest of the day, but he watches. His eyes are weary, like a deep green chasm of sorrow. I'm haunted by his sadness, but I feel justified in my behavior. I have the right to be pissed.

I drive by him on the way home. He sits at a bus stop, his head in his hands, his board underfoot. Where's he going? I didn't even know he rode the bus. My lack of knowledge as to why he rides or where he's going grates on my nerves the whole drive home.

Once there, all the things I don't know about Masen flood my brain, and I can't get past the feeling I don't know him at all. I thought I did. I guess not, but maybe I do. I have no idea. I don't know anything anymore except treating Masen like garbage for one day feels terrible, so I vow to do better—at least not be blatantly bitchy—but not give in. He has to meet me half way, a quarter of the way, in some _Masen way_ because I can't figure out his intimacy issues for him. No matter how much I wish I could, I can't, but I think we could solve this problem together.

After a lonely dinner, I buck up and call Angela. Dad'll be home soon, but I need the company. Plus, I refuse to be one of those girls. I'm not the lay-around-all-depressed-listening-to-sappy-music type. I can be sad, disappointed. Hell, I can be angry, but it's not going to ruin my life. So when she comes over to put my feather extension in, I make the most of it.

As she works on my hair, Angela regales me with a hysterical tale of Embry trying to toilet paper the house of his nemesis—Mr. Baldwin, his math teacher. It involves kids' dinosaur-shaped flashlights, hopping over fences, and someone peeing their pants. I'm holding my stomach, belly laughing when she brings up the fact that Masen was the one who saved the day. When Mr. Baldwin caught them, Masen took off the opposite direction on his skateboard, so Mr. Baldwin would follow. That sounds just like Masen. He'd do whatever it took to protect those he loves.

But why can't he protect _my_ heart? Why can't he rescue _me_?

I sober up and switch with Angela, so that I can put in her feather. I work quietly, but Angela doesn't seem to mind. She's very sweet and gives me my space. She chats a lot about other people, but she doesn't get into my business. She's respectful in that sense, but for some reason tonight I kind of want her to get nosy. I need someone to talk to, yet I know I won't broach the subject. I shift and hum a sad tune while I try to affix the extension.

"Did you get to meet Alice?" Angela says. Oh, boy. Not who I want to talk about. Or do I?

"Yeah, Masen introduced us."

"She was nice. Wonder what her story is."

"I don't know. A friend of Masen's, I guess."

"They seemed kind of chummy. She was a bit, er, touchy around him, and she never stopped talking. It was kind of shocking."

"Hmm."

"Didn't she seem kind of old? And what was with her skirt? Do you think they're together now?" she says, sounding truly curious while twirling a brush between her hands.

"I don't know." Age, skirt, together? I know nothing.

"I thought he liked you." _You and me both._

I can't think of anything to say, so I nod.

"When Embry and I were in the kitchen, we saw them fighting in the hallway. I think Masen's voice was even raised. So weird. And then they just ran outside, and the next thing I know they're giggling in the backyard, totally baked. I didn't even know Masen smoked pot. The things you don't know about people." She shakes her head, and I lose my grip on the feather. I have to start over. What else is new? "Oops, sorry."

"It's okay." I really want to change the topic of conversation, but the desperate girl in me clings on, wanting to know more. "So, you've never seen her before? And Masen's never mentioned her before?"

"Not at all. I've known Masen since the third grade. I had no idea this girl existed. Maybe he lives a secret life like Cody Banks." Her eyes are bright, and she's delighted with her comparison. It makes me laugh. Only Angela.

"Well, what were they fighting about?"

"No idea. Embry was paying more attention than I was. He acts all tough, but he's such a girl. A big ol' gossipy girl. The other day . . ."

The conversation shifts to all things Embry. Part of me is relieved she doesn't know anything about Alice, but another part wishes she did. I'm dying to know who she is—more importantly who she is to Masen.

We call it a night when Dad gets nosy and comes upstairs. He sits on my bed, asking Angela about school and her family. So much for privacy.

I spend the rest of my evening tossing and turning, trying to figure out what to do, if anything. Up until that stupid party, I've been so good to Masen. I've been patient and kind and have treated him the way he needs to be treated. At least, I think I have. I hope I have. Now it's time for some reciprocation. I deserve better. And I'm going to get it, or I'm done. My mother taught me never to settle. I won't, but I will compromise if necessary. If Masen can just share a little bit with me about his life, about Alice, about his feelings, then we can move on. I hope it happens soon, but with his track record, I think I'm in for a long stretch of frustration. I plan to be patient like before, but now that I've snapped I worry it'll be harder to reach that level of Zen again. I'm willing to try though.

The rest of the week flies by, and my dad was so right. Masen's persistent. He greets me Tuesday through Friday at my home and then skates to school while I drive.

He asks me if I've read my Vans every day, and every day I tell him no. I'm such a liar, but I have to be. I'm not going to be the one to start a potential relationship-changing conversation. He needs to do it, so I lie. I say that I haven't read them though each day I read a bit more than the day before . . .

_Repentant, drowning in my shame, seeking solace in the palm of your hand. You open me wide, igniting my nerves, placing your virtue in the hole in my heart, healing my soul. _

. . .and I know for certain I'm in love with him.

His words leave me breathless and hopeful, but he can't just say sorry on my shoes. And he still has so much to explain. He has to talk to me. I can't be with someone who can't talk. Communication is the key, isn't it?

Another week passes, and I've essentially cut him off. I give him yes or no responses when he asks me a question, but that's about it. It's the best I can do, and it keeps me safe just in case he doesn't come to his senses.

One day during English he addresses me, trying desperately to get me to talk. He's sharing a lot lately, only it's all arbitrary information. It's not enough.

"Remember when we had to write those sonnets?"

"Mmm."

"Ms. Robinson really liked mine. She wants to read it at some teachers' conference. She invited me to go. I probably won't, though."

"Mmm."

"It was all about you." He looks up, his expression pitiful yet somehow enticing. He's so difficult to resist. But, really, what am I supposed to say to that?

I don't really want to know what the thing says. I can't read anymore of his poetry. A Shakespearean sonnet by Masen would throw me over the edge, and I'd absolutely cave. It's bad enough I see his sad eyes and feel guilty. But that's not my problem. He turned me down and paraded _her_ around. He chose this; he has to fix it. I need him to say something to me—something real and tangible. I'm tired of these superficial conversations. They're all meaningless if they get us nowhere. I can't have a relationship based on nothingness.

I want him to stop babbling and start communicating, but he won't. Or maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't know how. Regardless, I wish he'd answer all of my unasked questions. I wish he'd just be open and honest. I wish he'd let me love him and love me in return.

Masen is staring, begging for my attention, begging me to engage. I can't. I refuse and turn my head to the front of the class where Ms. Robinson is setting up a writing prompt.

I pull out my notebook, pluck the pencil from my hair, and begin the assignment, leaving him hanging.

All through my Masen boycott, I spend my time with Angela and Embry. Embry is a total riot. I'm always laughing when he's around. I completely understand why Angela fell for him. Humor and lightness go a long way. And they've come a long way themselves, having been together for almost three years. They must have some fun history.

I wish Masen and I had a history. I suppose we do; it's just a bit sad and pathetic. Maybe he could write a sonnet about our failed attempt at a relationship and have Ms. Robinson read that. It'd be a hit. After all, Shakespeare's most famous for his tragedies.

Over lunch Embry tells us about his younger brother who's recently become a klepto. Apparently his father brought him back to Safeway to return the Z-Bars he stole. During Embry's anecdote, Masen's foot bonks mine under the table repeatedly. Clearly, he's agitated. I'm not quite sure why, but it's probably because I refuse to talk to him. I still sit by him at lunch, though—why should I have to change my routine? He needs to make the next move, not me. I simply scoot over and return my attention to Embry. He goes on and on about the ridiculousness of hijacking something so banal when Masen adds his two cents. "Maybe he was hungry. You never know why people do the things they do. There's no way to really know what's going on in their heads."

Everyone turns to look at Masen; he's rolling a pen back and forth atop the table, avoiding eye contact.

"Dude, my brother eats all the time. I bet he was just pissed my mom wouldn't let him have one, so he just took it," Embry says.

Masen shrugs. "Whatever you say." His expression is solemn as he excuses himself from the lunch table. He scurries to the exit, his hands stuffed into his pockets, head down. That seems to be his permanent stance as of late. I fear I'm to blame for that.

"That dude is depressed or whatever," Embry offers.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Angela studies me, and I wonder what she's trying to figure out. I haven't divulged anything about Masen and me—not even when we had our girls' night—though I suspect she knows.

"I've never seen Masen talk so much in his whole damn life. Well, the last five years that I've been friends with him anyway."

"He is talking a lot lately," Angela agrees.

"He's babbling," I mutter.

"Babbling or not, something's going down. I mean, at The Wedge he's all business and skates and whatnot, but here—around you, really—he's all blah, blah, blah, opinions and stuff. S'weird." Embry's expression is one of bafflement. He catches my eye, and I try not to look suspicious by checking out my water bottle. I fail miserably. Yeah, they both know something's up.

The last bell rings, and I round a corner into the math wing where my locker resides. I stop for a moment and take in the scene before me. Masen sits on his skateboard in front of my locker; his feet are off the floor. He rolls back and forth, looking like a little boy—playing and carefree. My heart breaks for him, knowing he may never have had that. I want to talk to him about why that may be. I wish he'd put us both out of our misery and just speak up already.

I'm so tired of this and not doing a great job at being neutral about our relationship. Some days I'm depressed and longing to hold his hand, so I'm friendly and smile way too much. Other days I'm just irritated at how incapable he is at basic conversation. I do my best to hold strong, but it takes so much energy to keep someone at arms length. I don't know how Masen did it for so long, how he continues to do it. I miss how things were between us; I miss our silly dynamic. I miss _him_. At this point I'm searching for any reason to forgive him and move on. I drag my feet toward him, foolishly hoping that when I get there he'll say something profound.

"Hi."

Yeah, I'm a fool. I wave anyway. _Hi_ is better than nothing, I suppose.

"I ditched PE. I hoped maybe you'd ditch your last class, too, so we could," he stands and rolls the board back and forth with his foot, keeping it at his side, "talk or something about . . . whatever." He shrugs, and I'm dying to hug him. I don't. I play with the straps of my backpack instead.

"Too bad you didn't tell me you were ditching. Then I could've told you I would've ditched too. I would've gone to the bleachers with you or wherever." I'll do anything to get back what we had, but he has to communicate with me.

His eyes widen in surprise. It's like he doesn't even know I like him, that I care for him. I do! Why can't he see that?

"I was thinking earlier about . . . when I was little, my mom—she—she had long hair like yours, and she used to let me braid it. Well, forced me to anyway. Used to say I'd have little girls with crazy hair like mine that'd need to be tamed. Anyway, she–I–your hair . . . it reminds me of my childhood—when I was happy. You remind me of happiness, and I–I–you know . . . like it when I'm around it, around you."

This awkward boy is pouring his heart out, rambling and babbling like a loon, but I get it, I do. Beneath all that, he's saying, _I'm sorry, I miss you, you make me happy_, but all without actually saying those things.

I try to smile, but all I manage is a bit of a frown and a hand on his shoulder with a squeeze. He tilts his head to the side to rest it on my hand; the contact is the first we've made in a long time. He closes his eyes, looking serene.

I flip my hand, effectively lifting his face and cupping his cheek. When I lower my hand, he raises his own. He runs his thumb beneath my ear then reaches around, slowly drawing the pencil from my hair. He runs it under his nose, inhaling deeply. He pockets it and smiles sweetly. His hopeful expression and the intensity of his sea greens chip away at my hardened heart.

He's making more of an effort than he has before. My body floods with relief, relaxing me. I'm ready now. I want to talk. I'm hoping now is the time, so I take the initiative. "Do you wanna—"

"Masen, let's go!" _Tyler_. Ugh! How does he even know Masen's in here—both their lockers are in the science building. I want to chuck something at Tyler to make him go away.

Masen turns and holds up a finger, signaling for a minute. _A minute?_ That's what I deserve after all of this drama? One minute? I don't think so.

I wrench my locker open, making a ruckus as I deposit books and withdraw what I need for my homework. I hear his board slap the linoleum once; Masen's most likely carrying it now, but I wouldn't know since my back is to him.

"See you later, Bella," he says, his tone timid.

He disappears down the hall with Tyler as I drop tears and all the hope I harbored for us just one minute ago.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

A quick thanks to MsJaxTeller for prereading this chapter in a pinch. Also thank you to BellaFlan who beta'd the Shakespearean sonnet. She told me many things were wrong but to leave them as they were. I love her! Thanks to modernsafari1 and aidanmamma for prereading Masen's sonnet.

My prereaders and betas are so generous with their time. They keep me on my toes and always teach me something new. I have an affair with 'that'. Did you know? Now you do. Did you know THAT Perrymaxed is writing a twific? I'm a glorified prereader, and it's good. Go read Unrequited by Perrymaxed.


	10. The Day Masen Tells Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Secrets by One Republic, Feels Like Tonight by Daughtry, Take My Hand by Dido

**Chapter 10: The Day Masen Tells Me **

It's Thursday afternoon, and school's out. I'm stuck talking about an assignment with my government teacher. I need some clarification because, honestly, I wasn't listening. I've been way too distracted lately.

This week has been weird. After Masen disappeared with Tyler last Friday, I spent the weekend thinking about my life and came to the conclusion that things weren't going to work. I decided we'd just be friends. And that's fine. It's good, actually, because there's no more limbo, no feeling of 'will he or won't he?' The thing is, now that I've made the decision, he's more confusing than ever.

At lunch today he sat right next to me with a big grin on his face and stole fries off my plate. He was so happy I couldn't even be bothered to be irritated by it. Instead, I swiped one straight from his hand and ate it. Geez, did he look adorable when he registered what I'd done—all surprise, wide eyes, and playfulness. It made me wonder what the hell was going on. I mean, I knew I'd lightened up a bit since making my decision, but this was a bit much.

When he left to use the restroom, Embry shocked me by saying, "I'm glad to see you two all . . ." He wrapped his arms around himself and made kissy faces. What the hell?

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You two obviously made up. S'all good now, right?"

I paused, unable to move or speak, or even blink. Angela hit Embry upside the head and hissed something at him.

I grabbed my stuff and bolted from the cafeteria.

Really? Is that what everyone thinks? Is that what _he_ thinks? That everything's just hunky dory now because we stole each other's fries? Well, it's not.

But . . . so, now what?

I spent the rest of my day trying to figure out the _now what_ part. So far, not much luck.

I put away my study sheet with my notes for government, and then I head to the parking lot. Masen, Alec, and Melanie are playing hacky sack in the grass near my truck. I go straight for my door, trying to get away, but Masen jogs over. "You wanna stay and . . ." He motions to the other players.

"Nah, I'm not very good."

"Well, we're heading to The Wedge . . . Alec's driving, but . . ." Masen drifts off and shoves his hands in his pockets. He wants me to drive him over and stay to watch? I can't believe this. How did this happen to me? Why am I so stupid? And why is he so incapable of figuring this out? Is it because of his parents' influence or because he's a boy or what? Because I know he gets good grades. It can't be that he's lacking in brain cells. Then again, he did smoke pot . . . with _her_.

The thought of Alice makes my body tense up. The memory of her hugging Masen, legs and all, makes me livid, and I snap.

"You know what?" I say, my tone firm.

"Hmm?" he asks, all stupid and smiling.

"I can't do this anymore, Masen."

"What?"

"This . . ." I say, pointing between the two of us.

His brow furrows, and he takes a step backward, shaking his head.

"I can't—I never—you left me last week just when we were about to—"

"When?" His voice is so quiet. The area surrounding us has grown quiet too, and Alec and Melanie are staring.

"On Friday I wanted to talk to you, and you just—"

"We were done talking. You gave me your . . ." He points up to my bun. Oh, goodness. I gave him a white flag in the form of a pencil.

"I didn't mean to—look, it's fine. We'll just be friends. I just can't do this anymore. I need—"

"What?"

I look down at my Vans, see the writing, and the tears flow. I'm so tired of being angry, lonely, and mean. I can't do it anymore. I hate all those things about me.

"Bella, what?"

I can't answer him. If I do, I'll really start crying.

He moves toward me and lifts my face with both his hands. His eyes shift back and forth. "You're crying." His voice is so gentle, it hurts. I want this—him—so bad, but it won't work.

"I need more, Masen. It's just not enough."

"But—"

"I'm sorry." I pull his hands from my face and, without another word, hop in my truck and drive home, my vision blurry from tears.

Dad's home and eager to go bowling. I completely forgot I asked him to do something fun with me this week, you know, when I was moving on. My life is such a joke.

Despite my awful afternoon, we spend the evening laughing, eating greasy foods, and talking colleges. It's fun while it lasts. When I get home, there's a note attached to the front door. Since we use the garage, Dad doesn't see it, so I sneak out to get it after I'm ready for bed.

In the quiet of my room, the lights low, I open the paper. It's familiar—the color of the lines, the penmanship, the curled corner. It's from his notebook. There's a message on the top that reads, "For you – Masen." My eyes flow down the paper, revealing more of his words . . .

_Aching in my delirium_

"_Not enough" means so much _

_Though I'm never enough_

_Thought we were enough_

_Together_

_Surrender, meek, pliant _

_Whatever you need . . ._

I'm crying again. My limbs feel weightless, and my heart is numb. I can't hurt like this anymore. I wipe my face with my shirt as I walk to my desk, collecting my phone.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

It rings three times.

And then his mother picks up. "Is Edward coming home?" she says, in lieu of a greeting.

"I—hi, this is Bella Swan."

"I can read. Is my son coming home?"

"I don't—I . . ."

Mrs. Masen exhales in an annoyed fashion. "Tell him I need him here, okay?"

"Um, okay, I—" The dial tone goes dead. And I'm no better off than I was just minutes before. I drive to The Wedge, faking the need for a Walgreens run due to "feminine needs," but it's all for naught. He's not there; none of the guys are.

I return home, forlorn and worried, but sleep comes nonetheless. I have recurring nightmares about cutting Masen's hair. He doesn't say anything. He just watches me with his sad eyes.

Masen doesn't show up at school the following day, and no one knows where he is. It's not unusual for him to miss a day or two here and there. I've never asked him about it before, but based on the conversation with his mother last night, I have reason to worry. If your own mother doesn't know where you are . . .

The day passes, and I'm like a complete zombie by the time the final bell rings.

When I get home, Angela calls to make plans for the weekend. I don't even come up with a good excuse. All I say is, "I can't." She accepts my answer regardless. She really is a good friend.

When I emerge from the kitchen a shadow passes across my front window, and I just know it's him. I let him in but don't speak. He looks okay. I'm so relieved just to be in his presence.

"Where were you? I called you last night, and today you weren't at school."

"Stayed at a friend's. Needed time to think today."

We stand in the entryway of my living room, the cool April breeze still in the air. He looks around at my coat rack and table where we keep our newspaper and keys.

My dad waltzes into the living room, whistling, but stops in his tracks when he notices Masen. "Hey, it's the porch guy."

"I'm Masen. Sorry 'bout that," he says timidly and extends his hand to my father. Dad accepts his greeting, shaking his hand.

"We've all been there . . . when it's worth it, right?"

"Yeah." Masen shrugs. I wish he hadn't when responding to whether or not I was worth it, but I know he doesn't mean it that way. It's habit.

Dad leaves us with a "Don't stay up too late" and a stern look before retreating to his man cave—the den.

"I wanted you to see something," Masen says.

I stare at him with a blank expression. I'm just so shocked he's here.

"Can we go to your room? Or is he gonna—"

I walk away, and he follows me up the stairs. I sit on my bed, and he rummages through his backpack, pulling out his spiral notebook—_the_ spiral notebook. He opens it up and hands it to me.

The pages are filled with notes, poems, drawings, much like my shoes, only these seem more intimate. They're his; meant for his eyes only. I flip through the book, reading slowly, deliberately, trying to see what he couldn't say before.

_A kick to my head_

_A jolt, a spark_

_A smile I gave freely_

_Want to kiss the shoes that did it_

_And keep them on the curb_

_Dark waves_

_Curve of shoulder_

_Pale skin_

_Breath in my face_

_Sweetness everywhere_

_Kindness unsolicited_

I look up to see Edward pursing his lips, staring at me in anticipation. It's so good to see him. I go back to reading, turning a few pages.

_Fists falling_

_Flying_

_Running_

_Crying_

_Waiting_

_Edward!_

_Edward!_

_Edward!_

_My name_

_An echo in the stale air _

_Of our live-in tomb_

I look at him, tears streaming down my face. He sits next to me and brushes them away with his thumbs. He peers down at the page and speaks up, finally. "I'm named after my dad. My mom screams out _Edward_ when she's taking a beating. I never know if it's a plea to my dad to stop or a plea for me to help her. I just know I hate it. I hate the name. I hate my father. I'm not anything like him. I'm not Edward."

"No, you're not." I tilt my head, waiting for him to say something else. He doesn't, so I continue reading.

_Beauty_

_Truth_

_Freeing words_

_No questions_

_Getting me_

_Knowing me_

_Just by my eyes_

_Does she see?_

_Really?_

_Does she see?_

"I see you. I know you, Masen, I do. I just wish you'd tell me how you're feeling sometimes. I'm a good listener."

"I'm afraid." His eyes are soft, remorseful.

"Don't be."

"I've been hurt a lot."

"Not by me."

"No, not by you. Never by you."

He scoots closer to me, his arm brushing mine, and reads over my shoulder.

"_Hands in my hair_

_Hands on her hips_

_Want her in the shower_

_Panting my name"_

"That's true," he adds quietly, shrugging. The shrugging is not so bad this time, and I quite like his blasé attitude about this. My mood completely shifts now that he's here beside me like this. I smile coyly, and he smirks in return. We've always flirted without complication. Why can't we talk just as easily? It would make everything right. He reads more.

"_Leaves of green, green_

_Laughing_

_Loving_

_Living_

_Why can't it be?"_

"There's so many questions I want to ask."

"I know."

"But I don't ever do it because I just think you don't want me to."

"I didn't."

"Didn't? But now?"

"Ask."

"Do you want an apple when you're done?" I say, attempting to lighten the mood with my lame joke.

"Sure. I'm always hungry. There's never food in my house."

I frown. His life is so messed up. I regret not giving him something more than a Clif Bar each day. At least it's packed with protein.

"Who's Alice?" I ask, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. I cannot ruin this. This is our chance.

"I—Bella, I'm so sorry about that. I didn't even—I just assumed—she was so mad at me . . ." He didn't answer my question. I really want to tell him how upsetting it was to see her with him, how livid it made me that he laughed with her and let her touch him and everything else, but I don't. Instead, I sit, silently waiting for a response. Masen drags a hand over his hair and lets out a puff of air. "She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember."

I nod mechanically. How could I have ever thought anything else? I know Masen; he would never do such a thing to me. Why did I ever second guess what I knew about him? The last few weeks seem so silly to me now. "I—look, you're being so . . . and I'm just sitting here listening or whatever, but I'm really sorry too."

Masen's shoulders rise with his inhale, and he brushes his lips with his fingertips, thinking over my words.

"I was really mad, like, _really_ mad. I thought you two were together, and I just—I was so friggin' jealous. I didn't know what to do. I got a little mean, and . . . I'm sorry." I chew my lip, waiting for his response.

He tilts his head to the side and runs his hand over my arm. That's good enough for me.

I turn a few pages and request he read another poem.

"_I wish_

_I want_

_I need to be_

_But I'm not_

_And she is"_

"I am what?"

"You're Bella. You're sweet and innocent and pure and just—"

"I'm not," I say, shaking my head.

"When you grow up the way that I have, you see things that—know things that . . . trust me—you're innocent and pure compared to me."

"Does that matter?"

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"I don't want to corrupt you."

"Well, what if I corrupt you?"

"How?"

"With my innocence and purity and pretty, bright white halo. I'll cleanse it all away, like a baptism or something."

Masen narrows his eyes, clearly not enjoying my sarcasm, but I mean it. Why can't I corrupt him for the better?

He looks around the room, taking in our surroundings. I realize it's the first time he's been in here. His features soften when his eyes settle on mine, and in a quiet voice he asks, "Do you think you can?"

"I want to try. I deserve a chance."

"Why do you even want me?"

"Because I love you."

Masen freezes and shifts his eyes back and forth over my own. He's scared, I can tell, but figuring things out, assessing the situation. He leans forward and presses his lips to mine. Our kiss is slow, fluid, and full of possibility. When we pull away, he whispers against my lips, "I do too. Love you." He kisses me again, his hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking my skin. The intensity of his kiss makes me lightheaded, so I pull away, needing a break but not really wanting one.

He turns the pages until he gets to the end, reading poem after poem, recounting his ache, his pain while being away from me, feeling so penitent and wanting to apologize, to move on, but unable to say what he wanted. It's heartbreaking.

When he's finished, he stands, walking to my open closet and picking up my Vans. "Did you read them?"

"Every day."

"Did you like it?"

"I loved it. I love it still. Thank you."

He nods and drops the shoes, walking my way again. Before he can get to me, I drop to my knees in front of him. He lowers his gaze and swallows thickly.

With my eyes on his, I pull a pen from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. I lean down, and he exhales heavily. I maneuver from my kneeling position and lay down on the floor, placing my hand on his shoe. He curses under his breath, and I giggle at his earlier assumption. I'm not that easy.

He waits patiently while I write on some of the checkers that decorate his shoe. When I'm finished, he looks down at me, then his footwear, then me again with a gorgeous smile on his face.

"I think you missed one," he says. I've covered some white checkered squares with my name. It just seemed right.

"I'll finish at school or The Wedge or wherever. One at a time."

"Sounds good."

An hour later we're lying side by side on my bed, talking more openly than we ever have. Masen is still reserved, and his answers are short, but he's truthful. I love this side of him. He's vulnerable and trusting. It's enough. _He's_ enough.

I come to find out that Alice is a friend of his family's. When he was eight, his mother was beaten so badly that his aunt and uncle took him in for a while. Alice was their neighbor. He played with his cousins and Alice daily. He visits them every summer and always remained friends with her. He can be honest with her, trust her. He knew her before the sound of his own name became blasphemous.

Alice is his confidante. They email frequently and talk about me on the phone. I never knew I was worthy of being brought up in Masen's conversations, but it seems I am. Then, again, I never knew Masen had conversations.

"Until I met you, Alice was really the only person I talked to. She kept me sane. She—she understands me in a way that—I don't know, she just—"

"No, I get it. She's present. Sort of there for you, even when she's not. I've had friends like that. They're the best kind."

"Yeah, I agree. Only . . . I wouldn't say she's the _best_ kind of friend. I—I kind of like you the best." My stomach drops out in the best way possible. I pinch my lips with my fingers, trying not to grin like an idiot. I know I'm going to fail, so I roll onto my stomach and press my face into my pillow. This is unbelievable.

Masen tugs at my hair, but all I can do is sort of squeak into my pillow. He shifts, the weight of his body moving me slightly in his direction. He settles himself beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. His hand runs over the top of my head, smoothing my hair. I turn my head to peek at him with one eye. He lowers himself beside me, keeping his hand on my head. Our faces are inches apart.

"Why are you hiding?" he whispers, voice shaky.

"I'm not hiding."

He stares at my mouth, then my eyes. "You are."

"You're making me all . . . stupid," I say, not even able to keep a straight face. He laughs at my choice of words, his eyes smiling along with his mouth. "I just can't believe you're—I mean, you're in my room, talking to me. Masen's talking to me."

"I've always talked to you. Just not always—you know . . . out loud." He shrugs, and I shake my head, laughing into my pillow again. "What?" he asks, giggling with me.

"You're really adorable sometimes."

He wrinkles his nose in disagreement. "Am not."

I sit and poke him in the chest. "Yeah, you are."

He hums noncommittally.

"Yeah," I say again, not knowing how else to convince him.

"Yeah?" he whispers, propping himself onto an elbow. I nod. "Well, you're Bella, so . . ."

"So . . ." I prompt, curious to know what he'll say, but I soon forget because Masen's hand is on my thigh. He smoothes his thumb over the top of it before gripping and tugging. I maneuver closer, his fingers stroking the backside of my leg until it's draped over his hip. His other hand slides into my hair, and he pulls me in for a torturously slow and deep kiss. Our hands roam each other's bodies innocently, enjoying their new freedom. We lose a bit of precious conversation time, but it doesn't matter because I've been dying to kiss him like this for so long. Besides, I know now that Masen can be more forthcoming, so our conversations won't take as long as they used to, at least I hope not.

Eventually, we sit side by side, so we're not too distracted by each other's closeness. It also helps that Dad's in the kitchen making a ruckus to remind us that we're not alone.

Masen plays with my fingers as he tells me more about his childhood. His father lost his job and took to drinking to deal with the stress and depression. He never let up, even after he obtained new employment. By then his mother was drinking to deal with the beatings, which only managed to make it worse.

I lean in and kiss him sweetly. He deserves so much tenderness, and I hope to deliver it in spades.

"Bella, I need to tell you something."

"Hmm?"

"I—one of the reasons I was so hesitant about us, about this—I'm leaving. Right after graduation. I'm out of here." He closes his eyes for a moment, clearly worried about the effect his words will have on me.

"Where are you going?"

"Tustin, California. Alice lives with my cousin, Jasper. They have a house—uh—two bedroom. They want me to stay with them. Jasper—he—he knows a guy who owns a skate shop. He's looking for performers. They wanna set up exhibitions in order to amp up business."

"That sounds great."

"Are you okay with that?" He looks down at our linked hands and turns them over, examining them.

"It's a great opportunity."

"Yeah, but—"

"We'll be what we can be . . . until we can't be." Please, let us _be_, even if just for a moment.

If only we didn't have to deal with parents or school or responsibilities. If only it was just Masen and me, together. But that's a fantasy, and I live in the real world—one that is simultaneously beautiful and tragic, just like Masen.

"I thought I was the poet." His sea green eyes are on mine, a small smile adorning his face.

"You are." I pull my hand from his, so I can scoot back on the bed. He follows me, his head landing next to mine on the pillow. He looks so great there—next to me, on my bed.

We lay in silence, occasionally kissing each other between brief staring matches. I like looking into his eyes. I can see the real Masen—the one he hides from everyone else.

All of our lazing about makes it feel like Sunday or something, only better, much better, because now Masen has become mine. For now, anyway. I just hope I can let him go when the time comes.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

A quick thanks to Modernsafari1 for prereading this chapter. Also thank you to my Twitter peeps for indulging my Masen binges. It keeps me sane.

My prereaders and betas totally get me. They're all so different, but each one does a little something different for me. I need them all and adore them. A special thanks to Perry Maxwell (who's writing Unrequited) for keeping me from falling on my face this week with this chapter. Much love to ya, babe!


	11. The Day Masen and I Go Public

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Slide by Goo Goo Dolls, Two is Better Than One by Boys Like Girls feat. Taylor Swift, If It's Love by Train

**Chapter 11: The Day Masen and I Go Public**

I spend Saturday morning tidying my bathroom and end up wiping down the mirror three times because I can't concentrate. I keep thinking about his words, his lips, his hands on my skin, and I become a complete moron. I can't complain though because last week when I cleaned my bathroom, I was ready to give up Masen. So this is much, much better.

I make it to lunchtime before calling him. I think that's pretty good.

When he answers, he's quiet. That can mean so many things, so I don't let it bother me. I invite him to the park to hang out. The guys are already at The Wedge, so we decide to go there. I don't really want to be around a bunch of other people right now, but if it means I get to be with Masen then that's great.

I pick him up and hand over a sandwich. He smiles, says, "Thanks," and digs in right away. We ride in silence. It's so awkward, but in a good way. He's sitting close to the passenger door, gazing out the window. He finishes the sandwich and rids his hands of the crumbs on his jeans. He keeps looking at me now that's he's done eating; it's a hunger—a different kind.

I purposely park farther away than usual, closer to the playground than to The Wedge, which gives us a few minutes of solitude.

When we meet in front of my truck, he slides his hand around mine, and my heart starts to race. Being Masen's girlfriend is so much better than being just a girl he talks to occasionally, if at all. We walk hand–in-hand toward the bridge. He keeps glancing my way and smiling. It's a bit much for me, so at one point I stop walking and angle myself toward him. I stare at the ground, suddenly shy. Why am I being so dumb?

"What?" he asks, dropping his board and toeing it back and forth.

"I'm not ready to share you yet." I can't believe I said that. I sound like a jealous girlfriend . . . already.

"You wanna . . ." He nods back toward my truck, but I shake my head.

"No, I . . . I don't want everyone knowing about this, us. We just got together, and they're gonna be all stupid and happy, and I just—I kinda just want it to be ours. Just—for a little while. Are you okay with—"

I can't get the rest of my words out because Masen's lips are on mine: hard, unyielding, possessive. Damn. My body's rigid, and like a fool, I stand there with my hands to my sides until he tugs one. I wrap them both around his neck. This is much better. He's so full of good ideas, and creative too. Well, his tongue is.

His hands lock around my waist, and I love them there. It's the perfect spot. Oh, who am I kidding? Masen's hands anywhere on me is perfect. Hell, I took pinky–to-pinky just a few weeks ago, and even that was divine. I think I have an illness.

Masen pulls away slowly, kissing me intermittently as he puts space between us. "I think . . ." he says, a bit out of breath—which makes me so giddy, it's ridiculous. "I like that idea. Don't wanna share you either."

"Just—" I kiss him again. I have to. "For a little bit. I don't want to answer their questions."

"'Kay," he says, holding out his hand. I take it and step onto his skateboard, feeling confident in us, in this idea. He pushes me forward along the path until we reach The Wedge. Angela spots us and hops up, running in our direction. I lower one foot, my hands on Masen's shoulders as I dismount—anything to keep hold of him.

"You're here!" Angela yells, encroaching on our little bubble.

"Have fun," I mouth, and he nods. As soon as Angela reaches us, he takes off, gliding under the bridge to reach his friends.

"Hey, girl. So, you two actually made up?"

"Yeah, it's all good."

"Sorry about Embry, he . . . whatever. We just wig out sometimes."

"It's fine."

She waits for a minute, probably hoping I'll spill. I don't, so she presses on. "C'mon, saved you the seat next to the trash can."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know. I'm just that kind of friend."

"Embry's so lucky."

"I know." Angela links my arm with hers, and we sit in our usual spots to watch the boys. The rest of the day flies by as I watch Masen trick out. I've always known he was a good skater, but now that we're connected, I'm more involved than ever while watching him. I feel pride. And worry—worry that he'll bash his head open. I wonder how Angela has sat by and watched Embry all these years without going nuts.

It gets late, so Angela and I collect money from the guys and make a fast food run. We return with burgers, and the guys eat quickly before returning to the trenches. Masen hangs back a bit, so I offer to share my Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard with him. I hold out a spoonful; he wraps his lips around it, making me jealous of an inanimate object. Yeah, I might have an illness.

"Good?" I ask.

His eyes are wide, and he smirks. "You have no idea," he says before placing his board on the railing and sliding down, avoiding the steps.

I do my best to hide my exuberance at his blatant flirting. I don't even care whether he was talking about me or the peanut butter cups or how much he loves skateboarding. I'm just so unbelievably happy.

Angela eyes me speculatively, and I hand out my spoon. "Want some?" I offer, trying to deflect.

"Ew, it's all full of Masen cooties."

I shrug and enjoy my spoonful of ice cream, all the while thinking of him. He's right, and I could say the same thing to him—_You have no idea._

Darkness falls, and The Wedge is getting sparse. Eventually it's just me and Masen. I should be going home soon, but I don't want to be without him. So I stay. He skates on his own under the bridge, and I wonder how often he's out here like this enjoying the peace and quiet. I walk closer and sit on a short wall to watch. The view from here is so much better.

He does a few tricks I've seen before, but on one he crash lands when he glances my way. "I'm sorry," I shout, but he shakes his head like I'm being ridiculous. He continues on and runs the length of the wall before climbing it and doing a complicated aerial. He lands on his board, but it slips out from under him. He connects with the pavement, and I watch as he makes no move to get up. I panic and stand, calling his name. Nothing.

I'm running and skidding to a stop when I reach his side so I can lean over him. "Masen!" I place my hand on his chest. His eyes pop open, and he smiles. I smack him, then pull away. "I can't believe you."

"Sorry, sorry," he says, tugging on my arm, trying to get me to stay with him. "Wanted to see what you'd do."

"Like freak out?" I say loudly, hands flying in the air. I still look him over, wondering if he's really all right. He seems okay, though.

"You're freaked out?" His smile fades, and his eyes crinkle in the corners.

"Yeah," I say, like _duh_.

"C'm'ere."

I lean in and kiss him, but it seems it's not enough. He grasps my hand and pulls me toward him—on top of him—and kisses me. He tastes like peanut butter cups and cream. Then the weight of the moment hits me. Masen is kissing me at The Wedge. This is so cool. I respond more than is publicly acceptable, but we're the only ones here. I don't really care. Then I realize he's not touching me, so I ask why.

"Filthy," he mumbles between kisses.

"Don't care," I say pulling him up, so I can straddle him on the hard ground. There's nothing around us but his abandoned skateboard and the sounds of our kissing. Life is good.

**-MD-**

This week is possibly the best week of school I've had since moving to Arizona. Masen and I keep our little secret by sneaking kisses between classes in empty hallways and under the bleachers. It's all very teenage romance, and I'm loving every minute of it. Except for our moments in English.

English—while once my favorite class because Masen is in it—has now become a den of sexual thoughts, and Masen isn't helping. Since showing me his notebook, he's kept it an open book, so to speak. I'm able to read any poem at any time. Some are sad, some sweet, but most of all they're sensual. He's made it very clear that he's not shy; in fact, he's quite forward. I am too, so our flirting has gotten progressively more brazen, showcasing the fact that we both want one thing: each other. I don't mind it one bit, but it's very distracting.

He sits beside me, notebook under hand as usual, only now he keeps glancing at me with hooded eyes and a casual lick of his lips while he writes. If he keeps this up, I'll be tempted to just throw him on our shared table and mount him—in front of everyone. I don't care anymore who knows and who doesn't.

I sit with my arms folded across my chest, contemplating how I can get Masen to do something inappropriate in class. Of course I never would, but it's fun to think about. And apparently I'm not the only one who thinks so . . .

Masen slides his notebook over to me, his finger pointing to a certain passage. I lean over, reading his words, _"Red, ripe, waiting, my hands on her, smoothing down her shirt, finding skin, quenching my thirst."_

I pull my pencil from my hair and write a note to the side. _"You're a pervert. I like it!"_ I add a smiley face because I'm dumb. I slide it back to him, and his eyes go wide. He covers his mouth with his hand, coughing to cover a laugh.

He shakes his head and mouths, "Not that one," then points to another note.

I scoot closer and lean forward to read. _"Where's my pen? Haven't seen it for a while . . ." _

I laugh through my nose and write back. _"It's in my underwear drawer."_

When I move out of the way, Masen reads it, then thumps his head down on the desk. I laugh and pat his back. _Me too, buddy, me too._

We make it through English—and the rest of the week—without attacking each other at school, but I don't know how much longer we can keep up this charade. At the very least, I think hand holding would help me out with this craving I have for skin on skin.

Friday after school, we're all hanging out in the science wing waiting for Embry. He's stuck in detention for calling a teacher a muggle. We all want to go to CVS for a goody run. While we're waiting, Angela's chatting away and driving me crazy. I generally adore her, but more than anything, I just want some alone time with Masen.

Embry saunters out of the classroom with a big smile on his face.

"There's my badass boyfriend," Angela announces, running to him and plastering a big kiss on his mouth.

Masen groans, and I couldn't agree more.

They walk hand-in-hand toward us. Masen helps me up, and we walk beside them. Embry holds the door open as Masen steps back, saying, "Forgot something." He says it to me, so I throw my thumb over my shoulder to indicate I'll go with him.

Angela pipes up with, "We'll meet you in the parking lot." And then they're gone.

Masen walks back to his locker, and I follow. He works the lock and opens it, not saying a word. "Hold this?" he asks, and I hold out my hand. He places a pen with a bright tie-dye pattern on it, and I laugh.

"Is this for me?"

"Nah, it's the sparkly pen's new friend. This one's jealous. He wants to see your underwear drawer too." I double over with laughter, and he bends to meet me. "You okay?"

"I'm perfect," I say gleefully.

"I know," he says, and I'm speechless. How does he come up with this stuff? He returns his attention to the contents of his locker and books are shuffled around. "Just forgot—I needed . . ." He shuts the locker abruptly and slides over so he's in front of me. I hold my breath as he leans in, his hands on my neck. ". . . This," he finishes, and softly kisses me.

We take too long in the empty kissing-is-allowed-here hallway. I worry Angela or Embry will say something, but they don't.

We gather some snacks and eat on the curb of CVS before we all go home. I won't see Masen tonight. He won't say why, and I don't pry. Some things I've learned to leave alone. Tomorrow night there's a party at Tyler's, so I'll see him then. I look forward to it. Probably a little too much, as I spend an hour obsessing about what to wear. In the end, I go with a trusty red t-shirt and jeans that are comfortable. I'm not very good at dressing up.

**-MD-**

I have plans to pick up Masen, but when I go outside to leave, I find him sitting on his skateboard on my curb. "I would've let you inside."

He stands and smiles. "That's okay. I'm not . . ." He rubs his neck and continues, "Dads and me don't really. . ."

"It's fine." I wave him over, and with a quick hello kiss we're off to Tyler's.

I've never been to Tyler's before. In fact, I don't really know him. I kind of wrote him off rather early on as the dude that took Masen away. It makes me feel a bit silly now that I'm here in his kitchen eating his chips and drinking his beverages.

Masen and I play it cool but stay next to each other the whole night. Every graze of his fingers or blatant stare gets me all worked up. I just want to be alone with him. I've never had it this bad before. No wonder Angela and Embry are always all over each other. Who cares when there's this kind of chemistry? Not me. At least, not any more.

A loud, full-of-bass song comes on, and Embry and Angela go crazy dancing around in the living room with a few other couples from school. It's fun to watch them, though I can't imagine Masen and me dancing around like fools in front of everyone. It's just not really us. But, then what _is_ us? Public us? I have no idea, but I kind of want to find out.

I slip my hand into his, and he doesn't protest. He squeezes it back and leans in, his breath on my neck. "Wanna go somewhere?" _Yes!_ I want to scream but don't. I nod, and he stands, pulling me behind him and keeping the distance between us short. I can smell him as we walk—like berry Gatorade and something else, entirely all Masen.

We head out the back door into the yard that's decorated with some sadly placed twinkle lights. They blink, offering very little illumination. The yard is full of overgrown weeds and discarded furniture. There's a dog barking from the house next door, but I couldn't care less about any of this because I'm with Masen.

He lets go of my hand, and I perch myself on a ledge while he walks over to the fence, which he bangs and tells the dog to "Shut the hell up!" I can't hold in my laughter. He looks so annoyed. I've never seen him this upset before. "Hate that dumb dog. Always barking." He reaches me and stands between my legs, hands on my thighs. "Why are you laughing?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"I've never seen you angry before. And over a dog?"

"He's stupid. Keeps me awake . . . sometimes."

"You sleep here?"

"Sometimes." He shrugs.

"Do Tyler's parents say anything?"

"Nah . . . just has a mom. She—she dates this car dealership guy in north Scottsdale. When she's gone sometimes I—I crash on the couch."

"Oh." Well, now I feel really bad for having so much hatred toward Tyler. I'm glad to know someone's looking out for Masen, and he's not always stuck in that horrible house of his. I would invite him to live with me in an instant if my dad wouldn't go ballistic about it—which he most definitely would.

The barking dies down, and the song changes inside the house. Its soft notes filter through the open kitchen window. "I like this song."

"Yeah?" Masen's thumbs are on the move, inching upward to my hips.

"Yeah. Do you?"

"I like it." He's so quiet I'm not even sure what he's saying, but I don't care because he's leaning. All I see is his sexy leather choker and that neck I want to lick. He thwarts my plan and gently kisses me. He's so slow this time, and I can't handle the dichotomy of my racing heart and my lethargic lips. But it feels so good that I don't change my pace. The blinking lights in my periphery and the soft strains of the music create the perfect mood until the dog barks again. Masen jerks his head and scowls. I laugh when he turns around and yells at the "Ugliest, loudest mutt on the planet!" He's so cute.

When he turns back around, he shrugs. I giggle again, feeling ridiculous that I love everything about him. "Wanna go back inside? Ruining my mood." He jerks his elbow toward the dog.

I shake my head and pull him in by his shirt for another kiss—a more frantic one that matches my fast-pumping heart. We're in a full-on no-mistaking-it lip lock when the crackle of the screen door pierces the air. The freaking dog goes insane. Masen drops his head and groans.

"Sorry, man," a familiar voice says—_Tyler_—though I can't see him. Masen jerks his head as if to say, _S'okay_. Tyler replies with a chuckle and a, "'Bout time," which ends with a fist bump. He sifts through the mess on the porch, and the door clangs shut.

I drop my head to Masen's chest, breathing him in.

"Sorry," he says, smoothing his hands over my arms. "Y'okay."

"Yeah. I've been thinking this whole night I don't care anymore who knows. In fact, I want everyone to know."

"Can we just have tonight?"

"Yeah," I say, looking up. He gives me a peck and then surprises me by lifting me off the ledge and setting me on my feet.

"Remember reading about a little red shirt in my, uh . . ." He tips his head, with a shy smile.

"Mmm . . . maybe." I vaguely remember something about a red shirt. I think he hated it, if I recall correctly.

"Little red shirt, why do you hate me," he says, reciting his poem, then adds, "Little. Red. Shirt." He punctuates each word with a squeeze to my waist. I look down at my simple red top. I have no idea what he's going on about, but it sounds good. "It's dangerous."

I laugh through my nose and kiss him again. "I'll save you," I say, my words full of meaning.

"Hope so."

"Stomach?" I ask, pointing to the yard.

"Neck."

"Lips."

"Naked."

"That doesn't work." I fake a scowl.

"Sure it does."

"Boobs," I counter, cocking an eyebrow. Challenge is on. He smiles so wide, then looks down, nibbling his bottom lip. I want to nibble it too.

"Little red shirt." He's so quiet but chuckling. He tugs on my hand and pulls me to the tall grass. He settles himself there and pats his belly, where I rest my head.

We hang out in Tyler's dirty yard, talking and laughing amidst the sounds of party music and the yowling of the dog. And Masen is absolutely right: loudest damn dog ever.

After a while we head to my home, but when we get there I don't want him to leave. He rides me up and down the street on his board, teaching me some basic moves. I am definitely not a skater.

We sit on my curb, holding hands and chatting. Masen's got his eyes on a college near Tustin. He's determined to go since his parents never did. I'm so happy for him; he's making great goals. I just wish I could be a part of them in some way. But I guess I am, sort of. We talk until my front light magically goes off and on. That's my cue to go inside, I guess. Masen pulls me up immediately, so I don't get in trouble. My dad will love him when he gets to know him . . . hopefully. He certainly respects my dad and his rules, it seems. I give him a quick kiss goodbye and watch as he rides, and for the first time, I don't feel like he's skating away from me.

**-MD-**

Monday morning greets me with bright sunlight in my room. I'm not a morning person, to say the least, but today's not so bad. Masen and I have a plan to go public, so I'm sort of excited. Well, more excited for a Monday than I have been in a long while. I think I'll call it Masenday to commemorate it.

Masen—the person, not the day of the week—greets me at my door, and we ride to school together. We walk hand-in-hand toward the quad where we'll need to part for our first period classes. We stop, and just like we planned, Masen leans in with no hesitation and really goes for it. Tongue and all. It's probably the most blatantly inappropriate public kissing I've ever been a part of.

"You know, I don't hate this."

"Me neither," he says, a shy smile on his face. "We should . . ." He nods his head toward a building. He leans in one last time, kissing me softly on my neck before whispering, "I'm taking this; I know where it's been." He swipes my pen, and I laugh, kissing him one last time before heading to class.

On my way there I pass Angela and Embry and give them a little wave. Well, everyone will know now, and that's fine with me. I'm proud to go public with Masen. Especially on such a great Masenday like today.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

A quick thanks to Jordan aka hotsauce_twiguy for giving me a line for a dirty Masen poem and dubbing Mondays Masendays. I heart you, and thanks for letting me use your words. Good luck finding checkered Vans that fit!

MsJaxTeller is a musical encyclopedia. Thanks to her, we have a working playlist that rocks! Thanks, sweets!

Thank you Twitter for posting a picture of a detention slip wherein a child was being punished for calling a teacher a muggle. I laughed about it for days, and now it has a place in my fic. Gotta give credit where it's due.

To all of my readers: words can't express how it feels to interact with you through reviews, pm's, and Twitter. You make this so much fun and have a great influence on this story. Thank you for your support.

My prereaders and betas are unbelievable. This chapter didn't exist until Monday, and no one complained about it. My prereader stayed up late to read it, and my betas had a one day turn around. They are wicked awesome, yo. They've also never said a word about the fact that chapter eleven has had three versions and three titles. Thanks for your patience and mad skills, babes.


	12. The Day Masen Confides in Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereaders: **_ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional, Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute and Lady Antebellum

**Chapter 12: The Day Masen Confides in Me**

This month proves much better than the previous two. While February and March were filled with tension and drama, April is filled with levity and love, and it's about frigging time.

Masen and I have been official for two weeks and only public for one. We expected an onslaught of questions regarding our relationship, but it wasn't too brutal. Angela caught up with me on my way to class a few hours after we kissed the first time in public and said, "I'm coming over after school today," and I didn't argue.

I folded my laundry while she sat on my bed, staring.

"So . . ."

"We've been together for a week."

Angela popped up on her knees, shrieking. "A week!"

I laughed as I put away a pair of shorts. "Yes. And the thing is . . . we have so little time. I just wanted it to be us for awhile, you know."

Her smile turned to a frown, and she asked, "What do you mean 'so little time?'"

"Masen's moving to California after we graduate."

"Oh my Gawd."

I sat beside her on the bed, my folded shirt forgotten, wadded in my lap. "It's—I try not to think about it, but it's always there."

"What are you gonna do? Has he asked—I mean, are you going with him? Please tell me you're going with him. Masen has never been this happy. I mean, never. And he sure as hell can't stay here if there are better opportunities for him there."

"I know," I said, flopping onto my back and covering my face with my shirt. "This sucks."

"Okay, well, you've already got accepted to schools, right? ASU and U of A?"

"Yeah, but I wasn't even sure if I was going to do that because money is tight. My mom's a teacher; no money there. And Dad's air conditioning and heating business pays the bills, but we don't have tons of cash. I was hoping to get local scholarships and grants . . . I don't know. Everything's up in the air."

"Have you thought about California schools?"

"Of course. I Googled a few, but there's just—it's so expensive. And my dad's not going to give me his blessing and send me off to live with my boyfriend. I don't know if he'd help me at all. And it's not like Masen's parents will help."

"So? So you'll live in a roach infested hovel, eating ramen, and your plumbing will suck. But you'll be together."

"I think—I could do that. Maybe . . . I don't know. I'm just—"

"It's terrifying, I know. My mom and I are so close. I can't imagine going anywhere without her. I really depend on her, but you bet your ass if Embry decided to go to a college in Timbuktu, I'd say, 'Let's go.'"

"I wish I was as sure as you."

"You might not be now, but maybe with time . . ."

"We don't have a lot of that."

"You'll figure it out." She dragged my basket over, and we folded my clothes together quietly. "Do you love him?"

I tried not to smile but failed miserably. I nodded.

"How can you not, right? He's so adorable."

"He is, isn't he?" We giggled and forgot the clothes again. It felt good to talk this out with her. I've needed this.

"Do you think you'll . . ." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Who says we haven't?"

The look of surprise on her face almost trumped her shout of "Slut!"

"I'm kidding. And I don't know. We haven't talked about it."

"Is he a good kisser?"

"To quote you . . . oh my Gawd."

"Yay!" She bounced a bit on the bed as she cheered for my good fortune. "Well, there are two options. One, keep it tasteful and loving and part without consummating. No mess to clean up when he leaves . . . except for your shattered heart. Or two—which is so much better—you could screw like rabbits starting now, and don't stop until he leaves. In fact, I'll go home; let's call him now." Angela hopped off the bed and grabbed my cell from the dresser, dialing his number. I wrestled her down onto the floor and snatched it out of her hands. I was on top of her, straddling her waist, my hands holding hers down.

"Do you have a camera? The boys would love this!"

I just adore her. She left with a hug and a soft smile. It's so great to sort through some of my feelings with her. Our talk really got me thinking about living in the moment and enjoying every second.

I pulled out some paper and made a calendar, marking the day Masen and I first got together and the day we'll graduate. I posted it on my corkboard.

On the one hand, I'm glad I made it because it helps me to live each day with Masen to the fullest, but, on the other hand, it also reminds me just how little time we have—eight weeks. And it's already been two. Our time is running out, but we try not to let that get us down. We don't talk about it. Instead, we talk about everything else and just enjoy each other.

At school we hold hands in the halls and sneak kisses at lockers. Just as I suspected, the elementary skin-to-skin contact throughout the day helps to keep my raging hormones in check. I no longer want to fondle Masen every minute of every day, so that's progress. At least, a little bit.

In addition to basic—and tasteful—PDA, he pushes me around school on his skateboard when the teachers aren't looking. It makes me feel cherished, like I'm skater royalty or something. Essentially, we're happy, but in the back of my mind I know we have an expiration date. So in order to make the most of our time together, we ditch class regularly.

My dad is not happy when he gets a phone call from the school regarding my absenteeism and drags me into the living room for a father/daughter talk. I'm already dreading it and hope I can keep my inner-brat from emerging full force. The sooner we're done, the sooner I can meet up with Masen and do something fun.

"Why aren't you going to class? They say you missed two classes this week and one the week prior."

"Senioritis," I say, shrugging. I guess I picked up one of Masen's nuances. Oh well.

"Not good enough. And also a lie. I know for a fact you've been hanging out with that porch guy. He was here that one night, and I saw him skateboarding the other day. He looked all . . . _happy_." My dad uses air quotes, and I struggle not to laugh. He actually looks disappointed at Masen's newfound bliss, and I couldn't be more pleased since I'm the one who put his smile—or whatever led my dad to believe he was happy—there. That's so cool.

Dad and I have a showdown of wills. I'm not going to say anything in response to that and incriminate myself. _Your honor, I plead the fifth._

I'm not backing down. He knows I won't, so he goes all interrogator on me and starts with the questions.

"Are you dating this porch guy?"

"Masen."

"Whatever."

"Define dating."

He gives me his no-nonsense glare.

"Yes, he's my boyfriend, but there's no need to freak out because it's only temporary—he's moving to California after we graduate. I'm not too happy about that, but I'll deal with it when the time comes. I'd appreciate it if you'd cut me some slack, so that I can enjoy my time with him while he's still here."

"He's moving?" Dad's voice is a bit softer than I expect it to be. "That's—well, that's just—what a bummer, kiddo."

"Yeah," I say and smile inwardly, wishing Masen could be here to nudge me or wink or do something playful with that _yeah_.

"Well, you need to go to class. I understand you want to spend time with your, uh, porch guy, so bring him around, I guess. I trust you here. Here, of course, meaning when I'm here, Bella, to _supervise_." Again, he uses air quotes. Is he insinuating that he won't supervise us? That doesn't work. My dad is so old and foolish. "He's not to be in this house with you alone, PBJ time included. Got that?"

I salute like a brat and walk away to his repeated "Got that?" aimed at my back.

"Yes, Dad. I got it."

The following day I invite Masen over after school. I'm in direct violation of my dad's rules as he's at work, but I need to give Masen some time to adjust. I want him to feel safe in my home before throwing him over to my father for questioning or whatever. After all, the first time Masen knew my dad was coming home, he bolted. Then when he met my dad, he did so out of obligation. I figure trying to make him feel more comfortable here is the right thing to do.

I realize how correct I am—Masen's kind of jittery after I tell him about the conversation with Dad. I calm him by sitting close and running my hands over his fuzzy, growing out hair. It's just starting to curl a bit at the ends. It looks pretty cute.

When he's relaxed, he starts talking. I'm still trying to get used to his openness. I like it, but it's startling at times.

"My mom . . . she—she knows I'm leaving." I wait for him to continue, fiddling with a patch of hair that's sticking up on his head. "Alice has been calling a lot lately, trying to make plans . . . you know . . . stuff for later. Mom overheard some things, and she's been a mess about it."

"I feel for your mom—she's losing you. That'll be hard on all of us, but that was kind of sloppy of Alice. She should know better. That stuff can get you in trouble." I respect his relationship with Alice, but I'm not sure I'll ever understand it.

"It's fine." I hate when he says that; it's not fine. "You would actually like Alice if you got to know her. You know . . . Alice screamed and yelled at me after—well, and during—Alec's party. And the entire week after. Used shouty caps in email too."

"Is that why you decided to give this a try? You never really said what changed your mind about us." I pull my hand from his hair and rest it on his shoulder.

"No, I was going to give up on staying away from you, anyway, but I would've waited a bit, and . . . seeing you cry at school sorta did me in. I realized that I—I never wanted to see you that way again." He shrugs, his right shoulder moving under my hand. "She wasn't happy that I made you upset at all . . . and neither was I. She threatened me, told me I couldn't live with her if I screwed this up. I never told you, but she went home the night of the party 'cause she was so mad. She couldn't believe you didn't know who she was. I guess it was pretty dumb . . . keeping her a secret from you, but most everything was a secret then."

"Pretty dumb," I say, nodding. I wish Alice and I had met under different circumstances. But we can't take back our first impressions. It's kind of sad, really. I would've liked to talk with her about Masen. I never will now. My image of her is tainted. Plus, I'll probably never even see her again.

"My other cousin, Rosalie . . . she doesn't want me to move to Tustin." Masen turns his head and looks directly at me. It's hard to concentrate when he does that. His eyes say so much, even if he doesn't. He's hurt by this.

"Why's that?" I manage to get out.

"She's really mad at me. Last summer I—I promised her I'd stay, and I didn't."

"That would be really hard." I know I would be devastated if he promised me he'd stay and then left anyway. I don't blame Rosalie for being upset.

"Her boyfriend hates me."

"He doesn't hate you; he's just trying to protect her."

"Mmm."

We sit in companionable silence for a minute. I relish the fact that he's confided in me today. I never expected him to be this forthcoming—ever.

The silence stretches. I think he's done talking, but he surprises me by continuing our earlier conversation. It seems I've accomplished my goal, and he does feel comfortable in my home. I hope it continues when my dad's here too. I really want them to get along.

"A few days after I promised Rosalie, my mom called. She was crying and started begging. Said she missed me and needed me home, that she'd—she'd die if I didn't come back. It's almost as if . . . like she knew I was planning on staying." He shakes his head, looks down at our hands, and runs his thumb along the inside of my wrist.

My heart breaks for Masen and his mother. She might not make the best decisions when it comes to her son, but she's still a victim. I wish there was a way they could both come out of this situation on top. Unless his mother gives up drinking, I don't think that'll happen.

"I just—she's my mom. I love her. She was great before she started drinking. Used to play board games with me all the time, sing to me, and make me snacks. I just can't forget that. I felt like I owed her."

"By getting hit in her place?" My words are quiet, but my question is bold—one I've been dying to discuss too. I'm worried he won't answer, or worse, withdraw. He surprises me again.

"My dad—he's—he's huge. If she were to—and I wasn't there to defend her or get in the way—I don't think I'd ever forgive myself. At least, that's what I felt at the time."

"And now?"

"Now? I dunno. It just feels like—if I don't go now, I'll die here . . . fighting." He gets this far away look in his eyes, like he's reliving the moment he decided to leave, when it all became so clear to him. He shakes his head and smiles. "I deserve more than that, I think."

I smile back. "So much more than that."

His grin widens, and he pulls me into his lap, running his nose along the length of my neck. "You smell good," he says, words muffled by my skin.

"Thank you," I say. We sit quietly for a moment, his hand finding my bare back and sweeping under my shirt. I shiver at the contact, losing concentration, but manage to continue talking. "I don't mean to sound cruel, but I hope you don't waste time worrying about her. When you go, I mean."

"Won't have time for that; I'll be spending all my time missing you." His words are so sweet and make me want to cling to him and beg him to stay, but he has to get out of here. He just has to. He will be so much better off with family that will actually take care of him for a change.

"For what it's worth," I say and adjust myself to fully straddle his hips, "I'm glad you came back to Scottsdale." I kiss him lazily and then feel his smile against my neck.

He runs his hands up the length of my back and hooks them over my shoulders, pulling softly, exposing my neck. His tongue is smooth on my skin as it swirls up to my ear where he whispers, "Yeah, me too."

"I know it's early, but are you hungry?" I ask, my voice shaky and quiet due to my body's inability to speak and get kissed by Masen at the same time.

"Always," he says, punctuating his words with a bite to my neck. Oh, boy. Biting turns to sucking, and I'm two seconds away from ripping his shirt off and doing whatever I want when he stands up. I'm giggling as Masen carries me—my legs clutching his waist, my arms wrapped around his neck—toward the kitchen. He sets me atop the island and pats my hips. "What's to eat?" His grin is contagious, making me smile like a fool even when he turns his back and rummages through the refrigerator.

He pulls out chicken and vegetables, and I hop off the counter to help. I gather spices and sauces and put some water on for rice. He dices; I season. He cooks; I taste. We work so well together as we make our impromptu stir-fry.

"Why do you think people bother with white rice?" he asks, dishing some brown rice into my bowl. "More?"

I nod, and he gives me another scoop. "I dunno. It's got no flavor."

"There's nothing to it. Bland and boring and pasty. Not much nutritional value either." He scowls at my bowl as if it were full of white rice.

"You've thought a lot about this," I tease, grabbing forks before we sit down at the island.

"I just know about protein. Brown rice is more filling, better for you."

"My old neighbor—at my mom's—was pregnant and obsessed with getting enough protein. She got me hooked on Clif Bars. So, uh, is there something I should know about? You pregnant?"

Masen shakes his head and holds his hands up, telling me no. We eat in silence for a moment. He gives me one of his mushrooms when I search my bowl and discover I'm out. Could he be any more thoughtful? I wonder what I could do to make it up to him, and my mind goes astray, imagining him shirtless in my room. He interrupts my fantasy saying, "My aunt taught me about it—protein and cooking and whatever. Every summer she was freaked out by how thin I was. Wanted to make sure I knew how to feed myself the best, I guess."

"That's smart."

"Yeah," he says and looks to me immediately, our eyes locking, smiles involuntary.

We finish dinner while talking about our families. I recall some ridiculous tales about my mother, and he tells me more about his extended family in California. They sound like a really put together family. I wish I could meet all of Masen's family. Maybe someday I will. I could figure out a way to visit . . . someday.

Masen notices I'm in my he's-leaving-me funk and kisses it away. Unfortunately, or fortunately, he also kisses away many of our inhibitions. Before we know it, the dishes are forgotten, and we're upstairs in my room making out.

His shirt is crumpled on my floor, and I straddle his hips for the second time that day. My hands rove over the plane of his chest, and I realize it's the first time since I cut his hair that I've seen him shirtless. The natural lighting in here is so much better than in the bathroom. As a result, I can really see his skin, his imperfections—his scars.

My surge of hormones subsides and instead of groping him, I run my fingers delicately over each one. Masen sighs beneath me, chest falling with his exhale. He closes his eyes and relaxes his head to the side. I trace the raised bumps and old injuries, and when I'm through, I lower myself and press my lips to the marks of violence on his skin. Masen's quiet beneath me, but he flinches and tenses from time to time. Eventually he brings his hands up to rest on my hips—maybe to remind himself that it's me touching him, and he's safe. I finish with a slow and delicate kiss to his lips, and a barely audible, "I love you."

With that, Masen flips me over and takes control, moving me where he wants me, all the while kissing me deeply. No words are spoken; none are needed.

I wonder what it was like for him to go without a gentle touch for so long. I'm so grateful he's giving me the chance to caress him this way, to make him feel good, even if it's just kissing.

The sun sets—and he needs to go—but I can't seem to give him one goodbye kiss. One turns into two, which turns into us sitting on my porch steps with my hands wrapped around his shoulders, making his departure difficult.

He's telling me he needs to go, but I'm being foolish. Hell, I'm being a teenager and enjoying my carelessness. I like being Masen's girlfriend.

**-MD-**

Masen shows up to school, and his cheek is swollen with a swirly bruise of mottled green and purple on it. I vow to never make him late again. I can't bear to think that he was struck because of me. I kiss his bruise better, and he smiles, assuring me it's fine. It's not fine. Not at all.

I'm in a foul mood all day, and my moroseness carries over at The Wedge. Angela notices and elbows me hard in the ribs. "Hey!" I bellow. "That hurts."

"Yeah, well, watching you blame yourself hurts."

We don't say anything else, but a moment of understanding passes between us. I wonder how long she's known about Masen's home life.

I decide to be happier for his sake, so when he suggests we hang out at the golf course I agree with enthusiasm and even attempt to propel the skateboard there myself instead of having him push me. That doesn't go so well, but I do get to grab onto Masen's chest when I fall. It's fun.

We lay under our tree, his head on my stomach, his hand wrapped around mine. It's perfect.

"Why a pencil?" he muses out of the blue.

"What?" He twists my hair around his finger, his question suddenly making sense. "Oh, my mom is kinda, erm, flighty, and she always lost all of our hair ties and things, and I just had to get creative. There's almost always something long and thin you can shove in your hair. It just became a habit, but I do it a lot more here because of the heat. Everyday I think_, I'm leaving it down today_ or _I'll fix it today_, but it somehow always ends up in a bun."

"I love it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says and purses his lips so I'll kiss him. Of course I do. It's a good one too.

"Tell me about that." Hearing him talk—actually discuss something—is my favorite pastime now.

"Um, well, your hair smells good, so when you whip it around, it's like it just permeates the air, and yeah . . . I like it."

"What else?" He's in a great mood. I usually don't push for more, but today I think I can get away with it.

He sits up, captures my other hand and entwines our fingers on his lap. Our eyes focus on our finger play while he talks. "When you slide out your pencil or pen or whatever, your hair falls around your shoulders, and it makes me think of what it'll be like when we . . . you sure you want to hear this?" He dips his head low, smiling shyly. Of course I want to hear this, so I nod.

"Well, I think about you and me . . . under this tree, and I imagine you beneath me, your hair wild and pencil free. It's usually the last thing I think about before I go to bed."

"Me too," I admit.

He sputters, "W—what?"

"You don't think I imagine us that way together?"

"I don't know what you imagine." His tone is so surprised, as if I haven't been doing my damnedest to kiss him every second since we've been together. He has to know I want him. Doesn't he?

"Yes, you do." I place my hands on his pecs and straddle his hips before pressing him down onto the damp earth.

"I do?" His voice is higher than normal, but his eyes show me how excited he is by my words.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Of course." I lower myself over him and lick his earlobe, grazing it with my teeth. He smoothes his hands over my back, then rests them on my hips. We kiss for a few minutes, enjoying our new position.

When I pull away, he takes a moment to whisper, "You were supposed to say yeah."

I fall asleep shortly after that and wake to find Masen's backpack under my head. He's sitting cross-legged with his notebook in his lap, drawing or writing something swoon-worthy, no doubt. I kneel behind him, wrapping my arms around his neck and give his cheek a peck.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were tired. It's fine."

"This is nice," I say, pointing to his notebook. He's drawing a siren with a long, intricately decorated tail. It's beautiful. He pats my hand in thanks. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer."

"Yeah." He doesn't look up, just continues his work.

"Did you and Samantha ever . . ."

Masen jolts his head to the side, his eyes fixed on mine. Well, that got his attention.

"You know about her?"

"Angela."

He frowns, and I wait patiently for him to respond. I want to ask so many questions, it's ridiculous.

"Were you in love with her?"

"No," he says quickly, then goes back to his siren.

"So, did you . . . make love to her?"

"You can't make love to someone you're not in love with."

"And you can't avoid the question forever, unless you just don't want to answer it. That's fine too. I can be patient."

"I know. I love that." Masen finishes up his sketch and sets down his notebook. He lies down on his belly, and I follow. He picks at the lawn.

He stares at a long blade of grass in his hand and tears it in half before speaking. "Yes, we had sex. She insisted on it. She insisted on a lot of things. She was a very insistent person."

"Sounds—"

"Annoying," Masen finishes, and we both laugh. "What about you?"

"I'm not annoying. I'm lovable," I joke, and he knocks my feet with his, silly grin adorning his face. "I had a boyfriend for about six months junior year. He took me to prom, which I didn't even want to go to. Anyway . . . we didn't really dance, but we had a hotel room." I wiggle my eyebrows, punctuating my words.

Masen's brow furrows, and he gnaws on his lower lip. "What was his name?"

"He's not dead. His name _is_ Nick."

"Don't like him." He shakes his head in disgust. He's so freaking adorable.

"Didn't expect you to."

Masen rolls onto his back and plays with the ends of my hair. "Do you think before I leave we'll . . . that we might . . ."

"Share an apple?"

"Yeah, exactly," he says, tugging on my hair playfully, drawing me down to him and into a brief kiss.

"I'd love to share an apple with you."

"Yeah?" His eyes light up with excitement.

"Yeah, maybe even two or three or . . ."

He pushes his tongue into my mouth and pulls me on top of him, and I forget what I'm saying. It doesn't matter, though, because he's grabbing at my shirt and asking permission for something . . . I'm not sure what. All I know is I say _yeah _as many times as I can, making sure there's no communication problems.

On our journey home from the golf course, we're silent, though we keep glancing at one another and smiling like love-sick fools. Generally speaking I'm opposed to love-sick fools but not today. Today they're at the top of my I-love-you list.

He walks me to my door and peppers my face with lingering kisses intermingled with occasional_ apples_ and _yeahs_ that leave me breathless and fill my dreams with more Masen—much, much more Masen.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Readers - reviewing and non-reviewing, tweeting and non-tweeting, blog reading and non-blog reading - you are so fun. You make me laugh constantly. I'm so happy that I get to share this story with you, and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

My prereaders and betas are so hard working. They've been through the outtake, chapter 12, and Her Name is Bella _this_ week and are still talking to me. I know! I never say enough about Dinx, she proofs this stuff at the last minute before I post. She catches all of those double spaces and missed articles that slip by everyone else. She always leaves me Masen love in my email too. She's awesome. They're all awesome. Without them this story would be full of crumb buckets. Ignore me, I had a long week. Have a happy Masenday!


	13. The Day Masen Goes to NotProm

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Innocence by Avril Lavigne, Smile by Uncle Kracker

**Chapter 13: The Day Masen Goes to Not-Prom **

They say Arizona sunsets are stunning, and they're right . . . whoever _they_ are. I've never seen anything like it before. My mother and I used to sit and watch the day turn into night when I lived in Seattle. I haven't done it for a long time, but now that I spend most of my nights with Masen, I watch the sun go down all the time. It's nice that May nights here are beautiful too – cool but not cold.

Or maybe I just think everything is beautiful because I'm with Masen. Who knows?

We sit on the swings at the park adjacent to The Wedge, watching the deep reds and oranges bleed into one another. I brought Masen some dinner and stole him from his skating buddies. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, his eyes lit up when he realized I made him tacos with homemade peach salsa. I'm starting to love it here, so I figured I should learn some southwestern recipes. And anytime I get to feed Masen is a plus. Masen finishes his last bite and throws his trash away. When he returns, he pushes me for a bit. He's silent behind me except for the occasional _apple_ or _yeah_ whispered in my ear when I swing back toward him.

After several teasing pushes, I plant my feet and turn to face him. He pulls me to him by the chains. Once there I wrap my legs around him and let the swing fall away.

"Well, hi," he says, smile wide.

"Hi, yourself."

He pokes me in my side, and I giggle, then give his neck a raspberry. We're so lame. Much lamer than I would've expected. Oh, well.

He shakes his head as he walks us to a bench before plopping me down.

He stands between my legs and shoves his hands into his pockets. I stare at his feet, which seem to be fighting for the same spot on the ground. They overlap, one on top of the other. His brows are furrowed like he's in deep thought. He's quiet tonight—too quiet. Like _before_ quiet.

"Hey, what's going on?" I pull him closer by his belt loops.

"Alec's taking Melanie to prom . . . and Tyler's got his eyes on this junior." I wait while he figures out what else he's going to say. He clearly wants to say something. "Angela and Embry are doing something, not sure what exactly . . . do you—if you want . . . we can—I'll figure something out to pay for it."

"Masen?"

"Hmm?" He's not looking at me; his gaze is fixed on a father chasing after his son.

"I'm not a prom person."

"Oh, okay, I . . ." He fidgets, fingers wiggling in his pockets. It looks kind of silly, actually.

"Hey," I say, drawing him down by the hem of his shirt. I kiss him gently, and he sits beside me, legs wide, head in his hands. "I'm serious. I don't really dance. I would for you, in fact, I have, but I don't—I don't really care about that stuff. I'd rather hang out with you doing nothing than get all dressed up for the prom."

"Yeah?" He peeks up, eyes full of concern.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"So what's Angela doing?"

"Oh, some not-prom thing, I guess."

"Well, can we crash that?"

Masen shrugs. I'm sure we can. Angela loves company. I'll ask her tomorrow.

Masen still looks so forlorn, the frown on his beautiful face making me want to do something to get rid of it. I lean in and place a delicate kiss on his neck. He wraps his arm around me, and I settle into his side, kissing him again. He's spicy and sweet from the peach salsa and so delicious. I do my best to convince him with my tongue that I really don't care about prom. I think I've succeeded, but when I pull away he slumps slightly, resting his head on the arm of the bench.

I tug him up by the forearm, placing his head in my lap to run my fingers through his hair. He faces my stomach and kisses my belly button through the thin cotton fabric of my shirt. "Thank you . . . for understanding."

"I don't even want to go. Really." We're quiet for a minute, and he strokes his hand up and down my ribcage. "Hey, you're missing the sunset," I say, scratching his scalp.

"Don't care. You're all warm and sunsetty. Don't need it."

"Okay." I watch the sun sink behind the mountain on my own, sort of. It's bittersweet to think I have a limited number of sunsets left with Masen. I vow to see as many as I can with him until he's gone.

**-MD-**

Of course Angela is ecstatic about double dating with us for our prom thingamabob. Her exuberance was such that she dubbed it "Not-Prom" after I quoted Masen. She even made us glitter glue invitations. God love her.

She forced me to go shopping at a vintage thrift shop. We decided to go sort of retro, and I found a soft white dress that's modest yet pretty.

I observe Angela twirl around in front of the large mirror, blowing kisses at herself. She's so ridiculous but beautiful nonetheless. She looks like a pinup girl in her blue dress with white polka dots. I have a feeling Masen and I will be watching Angela and Embry smooch some more. What else is new?

As she changes, we talk. She's been such a good sounding board lately.

"So what's the latest news about California?" She unzips her dress as I stand facing the corner. I've never felt comfortable in situations like this, but Angela has no qualms about me being in here. In fact, she dragged me in, claiming she wouldn't be able to hear me on the other side of the thick velvet curtain.

"No news. We don't talk about it."

"Masen not talking? Shocker."

"I know. I want to . . . I don't know . . . discuss it—options, I mean."

"You want him to stay? Wait, is he even open to options?" I turn to face her as she smoothes her shirt down. "Right, how would you know if he's not talking? Well, I hate to say it, but you might just need to bite the bullet and have it out."

"I've never—we've never done that before. What if it turns into a fight?"

"First fights are important. They sort of set the precedent. Just do it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid."

"I'm not sure I can do anything fast with Masen."

"Ooh, let's hope not."

"You're so gross."

"You're gross." She sits and pulls on her boots, lacing them up. "Really, though, is there someone here he can stay with?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I have a few ideas."

"You should tell him, and tell him why you want him to stay. The why is just as important as the how."

"It just feels so selfish. How can I ask him to stay? What does he have here worth staying for?"

Angela stands and wraps me in her arms, squeezing me. She pushes me back by the shoulders and flicks my forehead. "You're as stupid as he is sometimes. That boy loves you. You take care of him in so many ways. You feed him, you cuddle him, you make sure he's having fun. He's never had any of that before. Not really. I don't think, anyway." She fixes her hair in the mirror and touches up her lipstick. She catches my eyes in the reflection and adds, "And don't just cast aside what I've said because I know. I know pre-Bella Masen. He was quiet and lonely and hurt and bored. You've already made an impact on his life, and you could make an impact on his future. That may be by asking him to stay. Regardless of where he ends up—here or there—he's going to love you forever."

I nod and bite my lip, thinking about her words. Maybe she's right. Maybe he would stay for me. But how could I ask him to? And how could we make it work?

"You have to tell him what you're thinking, what you're feeling. You can't let him just leave without ever saying anything. You'll regret it the rest of your life."

"How'd you get so smart?"

"I hate to admit it, but being with Embry has taught me a lot."

I laugh, and she flicks me again. This time on the ear.

"Don't tell him that."

"Never," I say as we exit the dressing room, arms linked.

**-MD-**

The day of Not-Prom Masen and I ditch class, sitting outside G Hall. I'm in his lap sharing a cookie with him while he talks about his final writing project for Ms. Robinson. I haven't even thought about mine. We're supposed to write about where we'll be in ten years. The topic is too painful—and I honestly don't know where I'll be in ten years—so I've been putting it off. Masen, however, is really excited about it. He has a master plan—one that doesn't include me, sadly. I'm trying to listen, but my attention is elsewhere. My discussion with Angela has been haunting me. I know I have to say some things to Masen, but it's pretty terrifying to even think about. Even so, I find the courage to get my thoughts out in the open when he's finished sharing his ideas for his essay.

"Masen?"

He's not really looking at me, focusing on some birds that just flew away.

"Have you considered all your options?" I finish off the last bit of cookie and wipe the crumbs off my hands.

"What options? For my future?" he asks, making eye contact. I'm too scared to clarify just yet, so I let him continue. "I already know what I want to study. Art. You know that."

"No, I meant moving to California. Have you considered staying . . . staying here with someone other than your parents, I mean?" I look away. I'm prepared for him leaving. At least, I said I was initially, but now I'm not so sure. All I know is I just want him around . . . all the time. And if he goes to California . . .

He lets out a long exhale and places his hands on my hips. "There's no one really . . ."

"What about Tyler?" I run my fingers up and down his chest, trying to keep him calm while we talk.

"What about him?"

"You've stayed there before, could you . . . I mean, stay there, like, really stay there?"

"I can't—I don't really—it's not his job to give me a place to stay." He drops his hands from my hips onto the pavement and looks out into the passageway, eyes scanning the dead grass and trash. He's pulled away, and we've just begun talking. This is not going well.

"Well, what about Embry? His mom and brother adore you."

"They barely know me. They wouldn't understand why I'd need . . . and they—full house, I don't think . . ."

"Okay, but Tyler knows, right?"

"I can't . . . just impose like that, and I wouldn't—it's not—I don't . . . " He turns his gaze back on me, eyes locked with mine. "Can we . . . I can't talk about this. Please . . ."

"I'm sorry, I just—"

"It's fine." His tone is that of a man who's surrendered. I hate that I've done that to him, and I hate those words. I wish he would just tell me what he really wants to say, but I can't blame him. I'm not doing any better. I can't seem to tell him that I even want him to stay to begin with. In fact, I just sound like I'm telling him his idea sucks, which is not at all how I feel. I just think there are other ways he can get away from his parents that don't include moving to another state and leaving me behind.

"I'm just trying to help."

"I know, but it took me a long time to make this decision. I've already made plans with Alice, and it's . . . I just want to enjoy the time we have while we have it, don't you?"

"Yes . . . I mean, yeah." I take his cue and decide to back off. He's not ready to talk about this, and I guess I'm not either. I wrap my arms around his neck and snuggle into his chest, breathing in his scent—cinnamon and chocolate for the moment.

He kisses me, then helps me up and walks me to my next class. We share a sweet kiss but part without words. It's unsettling. Even though I'm used to Masen's silence, this is different. I don't think he's mad, but I've certainly made him uncomfortable.

I feel like if we're going to figure something out—an alternative to him moving to California—then now's the time. But I didn't really do a good job of leading the conversation. I only got as far as sharing my plan with him. When that didn't go so well, he shut down and I shut down, choosing not to tell him how much I need him here, how much I want him here. He seemed so determined though, so anxious to get out of here. How can I express to him how much I love him and want him to stay without sounding callous and naïve? I've never pretended to know a lot about what goes on in his home, or any broken home. He's shared some things with me, but, on the whole, I'm ignorant to it.

I may be the product of a broken marriage, but I was raised in a good home by a good mother. She may be a bit self-centered, but she was never neglectful and always loving. I know I can't comprehend what it must be like for Masen to live in an abusive environment. He's probably itching to get out. What I do know is we'll miss each other. We're in love, and if we can find a way to be together that works for both of us, then we should do it. We have to sift through our options, or—as Angela said—we will regret it. _I_ will regret it.

I promise myself when the time is right I'll tell Masen exactly how I feel—I love him, I want to be with him, and I want him to stay.

When English rolls around, Masen's in better spirits, and we pass his notebook back and forth, making plans for the night. At one point he scribbles a random note which reads, "_You do help. Every day."_ It makes me feel so much better. And I'm proud of myself that I tried to get Masen to think of other options. It's a start, at least.

The day rolls by fast after English, and before I know it I'm at home, dressed and ready, waiting for Masen. Despite my emotional day, I'm really excited to go out with Masen tonight. We deserve to have some fun.

He arrives at my home at six, looking so cute in jeans and a corduroy jacket.

"Hi," I say, unable to keep the embarrassing smile off my face since he dressed up for me. Wearing that jacket in this Arizona heat must be uncomfortable for him.

"Hey, what's with . . ." He points to my face, looking goofy himself.

"You look really cute." I smooth my hands over his lapels and give him a gentle kiss. My dad clears his throat. Oops.

"What time will you be back?" Dad asks.

"Angela has a lot of plans, but no later than one, I'd guess."

Dad nods his head, but keeps his eyes on Masen, who looks a bit nervous now. They haven't had a whole lot of interaction, and it's been fleeting at that. Hi's and bye's really, so this should be interesting.

"My daughter's pretty, isn't she?"

"Yes, sir," Masen says quietly.

"You'd better tell her that before the night is over. You know the best way to tell her?" Dad gives Masen a minute to think it over, then says, "You use words—_only_ words."

Masen rubs his hand over his neck and nods. Dad is so insane. Why doesn't he just come out with a shotgun and say, "Don't make me a granddad!"?

"Okay," I say, clapping my hands. "We gotta get goin'."

Masen takes my hand, and we walk to the door. He opens it when Dad says, "Bella?" I turn to look at him, but keep my hand in Masen's. "You look great, kiddo."

"Thanks, Dad," I say softly before Masen pulls me into the night.

**-MD-**

I drive since he has no car—and no license, for that matter—which is fine. I don't mind. Masen's eyes are on my red flats, hands wringing in his lap. I'm not sure what that's about, but his nervous energy is freaking me out. I reach out and take his hand, so he'll knock it off. It has an immediate calming effect as he runs his opposite hand up and down my arm.

"He's right." Masen's voice is a little too loud for the inside of the car.

"What?" I ask, laughing.

"You—I mean . . ." He runs a hand through his short hair and returns it to my skin. "You look very pretty. Very."

"Oh." It's all I can say because, holy hell, how sweet is he?

I beam the rest of the way to the restaurant where we'll meet Angela and Embry.

Embry's mom works in Tempe at The Pointe, a swank hotel for snowbirds and business types that want a scenic view of the desert without the hassle of Phoenix traffic. She finagled a discounted dinner for us.

We pull up to the restaurant, and Masen tugs at my hand, pulling me his direction, so I can't exit my own door. It's odd, but whatever. Wherever Masen wants to go, I'll go. He hops out and puts his hands on my waist, lifting me out of the car. He sets me down slowly, eyes sweeping over my face as he flexes his hands against me. They're deliciously warm, and I want—

Masen pulls me into an intense kiss, tongue and teeth and heat and wow . . . he can really kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck and yank him toward me, so we're pressed together, the rough corduroy of his jacket against the bare skin of my arms is enticing. He drags his lips slowly over my own in a lingering, belly-tugging kiss before we separate.

"Mmm, hmm," I say, making no sense.

"Yeah. I—really wanted to do that. Sorry about, um, your lips." He grins, looking not the slightest bit apologetic.

I turn to peek in the side mirror of the truck, and my red lipstick is smeared a bit. I fix it, but part of me wants to leave it to show Angela and Embry we can have a good time too even though we don't display it. I tuck my curled hair behind my ears and smile when I remember the earrings I bought for the special occasion. Masen hasn't noticed yet. He'll get a kick out of them, I think.

Angela and Embry are already seated and look as though they're pretending to be adults, poring over their menus. It's so them. As we get closer, I realize they're speaking in British accents. Of course.

"I say, good day, Bella," Embry says in a chipper tone.

"Hey, gov'nah," I offer in a terrible cockney accent.

Angela greets us with, "Finally you're here. Wha', did ya get trapped in the loo, ya bloody gits?"

I laugh and squeeze Masen's hand. He shakes his head at the three of us, and we sit beside our goofy friends.

We order lobster tail, crab cakes, prime rib, and roasted chicken between the four of us. The fine dining experience doesn't keep us from being teenagers, though, and we pass forks back and forth across the table to try each other's delicacies. We also can't seem to let go of the British jargon set as our precedent when we got there. Everyone's joining in the fun except Masen, who's acting shy. I have a feeling if it were just the two of us, he'd jump in without a thought.

We finish off our cheesecake with raspberry sauce, and Angela announces she has to use the bathroom before we go. I sit in the lobby beside the two boys, both looking grown up and handsome in their fancier outfits. Embry tugs at his tie and says, "I hate this bloody thing, but my woman would get sassy with me if I took it off."

"Don't you mean cheeky?" I say, maintaining the British status quo.

"She'd go mad on your arse," Masen adds, and I grin.

"Yay, I got him to do it." I cheer with a toothy smile and silently applaud.

"You did, did you? 'Bout time," Embry says, British accent gone.

"W-what?" I ask. It's one thing for Angela to ask about my sex life, but Embry? Gross.

Masen kicks his foot, and Embry oofs. "Okay, geez, just . . . I was just curious . . . sorry. I'm a guy. What can I say? Sex on the brain _all_ the time."

I pass a look to Masen who then dips his head, fascinated with the toothpick dispenser. Angela joins us, and we go to our respective vehicles.

The short drive from the restaurant to the pool at The Pointe is fairly quiet except for Masen's fidgeting. He sure is wiggly tonight. Then a possibility occurs to me, and I have to speak up. "You know I don't expect . . . I know it's Not-Prom, but we don't have to, like . . ."

Masen shakes his head and grabs my hand. "I know. Just what he said—it, well, it's true. I think about it all the time."

"I do too." My words are as shy as Masen's smile.

"Really?" He keeps his eyes on me.

"Yeah."

"All the time?"

"Mostly . . . well, yeah."

"Say it again." He kisses my knuckle as I say _Yeah,_ and each consecutive _Yeah_ gets a kiss as well. I like this game.

The radio plays a quiet song about young lovers that I hum along to. As it comes to a close he leans over and kisses me just beneath my ear, whispering, "All the time, Bella, and these red apple earrings are not helping."

I smirk and swivel my head to catch his eyes; he looks so . . . naughty. I want to do something about this tension between us soon. Maybe even tonight . . . although I just said we didn't have to do that. Hmm . . .

**-MD-**

We all suit up in the clubhouse bathrooms, then Embry straight-up canon balls into the pool. He's such a little kid. Masen sits with his legs dangling in the water and pats the spot next to him. He watches me as I tip toe, trying not to slip on the deck, but I don't think he's worried about me. I think he's checking me out in my bikini. I don't mind.

I sit carefully beside him and dip my legs into the water too. He stares at my thighs, then his gaze moves up higher until he gets to my eyes. He reaches out and tugs lightly on my earlobe. "Not helping at all."

I shrug, playing coy and take his hand in my own, kissing his fingertips. I kind of like blatantly sexually frustrated Masen. He's fun to tease.

We eventually end up in the water and enjoy our time splashing around and playing a childish game of Marco Polo. I have such a sense of pride watching Masen let go and just have fun, knowing I'm responsible—at least, a piece of it. It's getting late, and both of us couples relegate ourselves to opposite ends of the pool. Masen and I make out with much more abandon than I thought possible with Angela and Embry so near. At least we can't hear each other, though. Angela turned on her iPod, so music fills the air around us.

I'm pressed into a corner, my legs wrapped around Masen's hips. His hands are on my thighs—gripping me tight—lips on my neck, sucking on my pool-dampened skin. I'm useless. Utterly useless. My head lulls backward as he smoothes his lips across my throat to get to the other side of my neck. What he's doing feels so good I squirm. I can't help it, but the movement is making him wriggle until he groans and dips into the water, swimming away.

Whoa. Too much.

When he comes back up for air, he squirts water at me with is fist, and I splash him back. He lunges toward me, but I attempt to hop out of the pool. He grabs my ankle before I get too far and slides me back in, trapping me once again in the corner. It's my favorite corner in the whole wide world.

Masen smirks and shakes his head.

"What?" I say.

"You better stop it."

"You stop it. I wasn't doing anything." _Pure innocence._

"Mmm hmm. Tell that to your dad when he asks you about my _words_."

"But you have such a way with words. In fact, I love your words. I love _all_ your words. I'd love any words you'd give me." I dip my head and kiss his neck, sliding my tongue over his skin and hooking my teeth over his choker.

"Bella," Masen says, a weak warning in his tone.

"What?" I say through clenched teeth, the leather still between them.

"Stop."

"You stop." I let go of the choker and lick his smooth neck.

"Not helping at all."

"Never said I would." I slide my hands down his chest, landing them on his hips. I tug him forward and wrap my legs around him again when we're interrupted by Embry's booming voice.

"Yo, we out. Pip pip, cherrio, and all that. A'ight?"

"See ya'." Masen's hungry eyes are fixated on mine. He doesn't even glance in Embry's direction. Wow, maybe I'm _really_ not helping.

Angela and Embry dress and come out of the clubhouse for a quick goodbye before taking off. She leaves me her iPod, so we can have some music. It's nice.

After a good fifteen minutes of French kissing in the corner of love, we get out and dry off, wrapping our towels around our waists. An upbeat song comes on, and I tug Masen by the hand, making him follow me to a paved spot near the barbeque grills. I keep his hand in mine and start rocking it back and forth. He raises his eyebrow like I'm the biggest dork but smiles when I duck underneath his arm, twirling myself. Masen spins me again and pulls me in to dance close and proper, my hand on his chest.

We dance for several songs, enjoying our little bubble. I once thought Masen flipping pancakes was the best image ever. I was wrong. Masen in a towel doing the twist to a hip hop song is better than him flipping pancakes, even ones topped with peanut butter.

I force Masen to drive me home even though he doesn't really know what he's doing. He agrees, and we enjoy our drive on side streets in second gear. We pull over two blocks before we get to my house, so we can switch. In the process of trading seats our limbs get tangled, then our lips bump together, and we really have a nice ride in the cab of my truck. He may not be much of a driver, buthe is certainly proficient in something other than skateboarding and poetry. Not-Prom is awesome.

In our haste to get home in time for my one a.m. self-imposed curfew, we failed to change out of our swim suits. Masen keeps staring at me, then grinning when I catch him watching. In my driveway, he pulls his pants over his trunks, and I wrap my dress over my swimsuit, buttoning it up. Masen watches me do that too. His eyes are glazed over, and his lips are swollen. Making out is dangerous.

Masen walks me to my door, our hands swinging between us.

"This was fun."

"Yeah," Masen says, looking shy and staring at our hands. He tips his head up, catching my eyes, looking serious suddenly. "Can I give you a goodnight kiss?"

"Of course," I say, and he levels me with a look. "Yeah." I correct myself with a roll of my eyes.

He leans in slowly, hand reaching my waist before his lips meet mine. He kisses me like we've never kissed before: hesitantly, with tenderness, and so much freaking restraint. I don't know how he does it, but it's driving me crazy—in the best way possible.

He gives me one last, lingering kiss and shifts his weight to his heels. "Yeah," he says, but it sounds more like a sigh. I repeat the sentiment; at least, I think I do. "I should go."

"Mmm."

"But—I don't—not before . . ." He scratches his head, then tugs on my ear, smiling at my silly apple earring, no doubt. "Love you, Bella."

"I love you too." I shuffle forward and steal one last kiss—a chaste one.

"Night."

"Night, Masen."

He nods but makes no move to leave my porch. I don't care. He can stay there forever and really earn the name Porch Guy. I'll stay with him here too. We'll be teenage hobos, living off the scraps my dad will throw our way.

My dad . . . oh, no.

The thought of him on the other side of the door—or worse, watching us—freaks me out and sets me in motion. I pull his skateboard away from the wall, where it's perched and offer it to him, holding it with both hands.

Masen looks me over and groans, pulling at his hair and biting his bottom lip.

"What?" I say, laughing.

"Nothing," he says, like a big old grump. He snatches his skateboard and slaps it against the ground with a thud.

"I was just trying to—"

"Help? Yeah, you in a white dress that's kinda wet in all the right places, holding my skateboard . . . not helping. Not at all."

"Oh, sorry." I shrug. Masen's such a boy.

"And she shrugs. Lovely."

"Shut up. Go home."

"Fine, I'll go."

"Bye."

To my surprise he jumps from the porch onto the lower driveway and skates away. When he reaches the curb, I call out to him, and he comes riding back, fast. I run to him and throw myself at him. He plants one foot on the ground just in time and catches me as I wrap my legs around him and kiss him. We're wild: hands in hair, teeth, pressing against each other. It's amazing and so frigging hot. My tongue slips in his mouth when the screen door bangs open, and there's loud stomping on the porch.

"Time to say goodbye, Bella." My dad is such a killjoy.

I duck my head and grin into Masen's neck. His chest rumbles with silent laughter. I slide down his body and whisper, "Bye," before skipping up the driveway to the sounds of his skateboard clicking against the pavement.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Modernsafari1 read this chapter on a plane on Friday. She owes me dark chocolate peanut butter cups for life. Everyone here is a witness. Please remind her.

I am so grateful to each and every one of you that takes the time to share with me what this story means to you and how it impacts your day. It means so much. Thank you.

_ss77_ is pregnant and somehow manages to read this between naps and trying not to hurl. She's awesome. Dinx is my proofreader – she catches everything with her non-chicken-like eyes and pimps me any chance she gets. Perry is honest and gets me to add just that little bit more that makes a character really come to life. It's beyond action, dialogue, and internal monologues. She always knows what's missing and tells me about it. I heart her hard. Mac214 is a smartass. She kept Masen from sticking his feet in his pockets and kept Bella from twirling under Masen's eyebrow. That is all. Have a great Masenday!


	14. The Day Masen Begs

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** She is Love by Parachute, Find a Way by SafetySuit

**Chapter 14 The Day Masen Begs**

With Masen's impending departure just four weeks away, we spend as much time together as possible. Most of our free hours are spent under our tree at the golf course. It's kind of become our spot. We like it there. We also like to fool around there too.

Late one evening we're caught up in each other on the green. His finger trails circles on my belly as we talk. It's hard to be coherent when he's touching me, but I'm doing my best.

"I really want you to meet him—really get to know him," I say, drawing in a breath when he lifts my shirt, and his lips replace his finger.

"I will."

"When?"

"Don't know."

"He still calls you porch guy."

Masen drops his head, and the feel of his giggle makes me squirm.

"It's not funny. I want him to know you. Now he just sees you as someone trying to defile me. I want him to like you. "

"Like me? I'm just a skater. He won't."

"He would if he could see how we are together."

"How's that?" he asks, resuming kisses on my skin.

"We're . . . you know . . ." Concentrating while he's doing that is so hard, so I go for broke. "This is important to me. If you wanted me to meet your parents, I would."

Masen ceases his kissing and flops onto his back, his arms spread wide. Crap. He's been shutting down a lot lately. I think with our inevitable parting, it's harder for him to open up or stay open. And I understand. It would be much easier for him to leave if we weren't on such good terms. At least, I think so. This sucks.

"Masen?"

He doesn't respond other than a quick blink of his eyes.

"Do you want me to meet your parents?" My voice is soft; I don't want to push him.

In a flash he's sitting up, eyes fierce, voice stern. "No."

Geez, that was a fast _no_. What does that mean? Does he not want us to meet at all? If I'm being completely honest, I'd kind of like to meet them. Call it morbid curiosity. "Never?"

He drops his head and curses under his breath. "Let's go. I'll take you home," he says quietly and pulls me up by my forearm.

He carries his skateboard, making me feel utterly rejected. We walk in silence. We haven't done that in a long while, and it's unnerving. When we've reached my door, I hug him close to me and give him a goodbye kiss. As I work the lock he surprises me by saying, "Friday?"

"Dinner with my dad?"

He nods.

"Okay."

He gives me one last kiss and skates down my driveway, heading home.

Friday rolls around, and Dad is kind of pissed. Maybe not pissed but overwhelmed or just freaked out. He's _something,_ that's for sure.

"When's porch guy gonna get here?"

"Soon," I say, setting the table, all the while worrying Dad is going to do something stupid at dinner. Just as I place the last fork, there's a knock on the door.

I answer it and throw my arms around Masen immediately. He winces, and I pull back, noticing a large bruise and fresh scab on his lower neck and collarbone. I want to ask him about it, but I don't.

We walk hand-in-hand into the kitchen, and my dad looks us over. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to figure out if we're having sex. He's so nosy. I glare at Dad, and he shakes Masen's hand, lifting a brow at me when he notices Masen's injury. I shrug, and he lets it go.

Dinner drags due to the silence. And here I worried about my dad's questions all for nothing. I think we'll get through dinner unscathed, but eventually Dad starts talking.

"So what's in California?" he asks.

"Family and school."

"What do you plan on doing?"

"Mmm." Masen finishes a mouthful of potatoes and answers my dad. "I've been accepted to The Art Institute of California—um, good design programs . . . art classes."

"It's a degree?" Dad's asking lots of questions, but he's being kind about it. Sort of talking to Masen like he's family, which is nice. I'm certainly glad he's not interrogating him or making him feel foolish for moving away. And while I don't want him to leave, I think it's the best thing for him to get away from his parents, so he can start living his life.

"Graphic design—Bachelors of Science."

This isn't news to me, but my dad knows nothing about Masen. He seems pleased by his answers, glad he has a plan. He's not too happy I haven't chosen a college yet—let alone a degree—so, of course, he has to bring it up.

"It's good to hear a young kid who knows what he wants. Bella knows, but she won't pick a school."

"I don't know," I mumble and take a large bite of my chicken.

"You've been telling me since you started kindergarten you wanted to teach just like your mom."

"I just can't see myself around all those runny-nosed kids. I don't have a lot of patience."

"That's not true," a male chorus consisting of Masen and my father rings out.

"I think you're patient . . . patient with me." Masen gives me a soft smile.

"If you can live with your mother and put up with her, you can certainly deal with a bunch of kids." Dad switches his gaze from me to Masen. "Bella's mother is a bit nuts." Hearing my dad talk to Masen so casually throws me for a loop, and I giggle.

Masen laughs with me, then adds, "I kinda like a bit nuts."

"I do too," Dad says. "She was a lot of fun when we were kids." My dad gets a wistful expression on his face, then goes back to his meal.

All of this talk about the future has me feeling young, inexperienced, and unsure. Why does Masen know so much about what his future holds and I don't? Does he know himself better than I know myself? Or is it just that he's being pushed to move on with his life? I'm not sure, but it's certainly got me thinking about what I want—_all_ aspects of what I want.

"I know I could do it, but I don't really want to."

"You don't want to do anything. Bella, wanna see a movie? No." Dad's getting obnoxious now. "Wanna go on a trip? No. Wanna order pizza? No." He drops his fork, signifying his displeasure. "You're just a grumpy teenager."

"Hey, I'm an adult now. Take it back." I throw a green bean at him, which he picks up and eats.

Masen shakes his head as he watches our back and forth.

"It's the truth. She's boring. I don't know how you put up with her."

"I don't know how I put up with you," I sass back.

"Smartass."

"I get it from you," I say, popping a green bean into my mouth.

"Maybe that's the problem."

"There's no problem. I'm just giving you a hard time, Dad."

"No, I mean, the problem is you're too nuts and smartass-y to teach little kids. Maybe you need the older crowd. Junior high, high school, maybe. They'd keep it entertaining."

"Maybe . . ."

Masen refills his plate, getting seconds, which makes me smile. I'm so glad he feels comfortable here and he's having a good time with my dad. At least, I hope he is.

We finish dessert, and just when I think we're free and clear of my dad's obnoxiousness, he speaks up again. "You get in a fight?"

"Dad!" I'm appalled.

"No," Masen says, then sips his water.

My father is not deterred by my outburst. "Did you do that on your skateboard?"

"No."

"Someone hit you?"

"Yes."

"You hit them back?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No reason to."

Dad presses his lip to his nose in contemplation. "If someone hit you and then threatened my daughter, would you hit them back?"

"Absolutely." Masen's green eyes zip from my father's to my own, and I know he's completely serious. It's kind of arousing to hear him talk about defending me, but at the same time, the thought of him in a fight is terrifying.

"Good man, Masen." I take note that he used his real name. _Finally._ Dad walks his plate to the kitchen and puts it in the sink. He turns to address us again. "Well, this was real good. I'm going to watch a game and pass out. Don't stay up too late, and _stay_ in the living room." Again with the inappropriate air quotes.

"Sure," I say, shaking my head at his dorkiness and motion for Masen to hand over his plate. Instead, he takes mine and loads them in the dishwasher as my dad watches, seemingly impressed.

"Well . . . night," Dad says and shakes Masen's hand again before heading to the den.

We clean up and park ourselves on the couch. I'm dying to know what Masen thinks about my dad; he won't say much even if I ask, so I don't bother. Instead, I fidget nervously with my hair and worry my lip.

"You nervous?"

I shake my head.

"What's with all the . . ." He moves his lips around, making funny faces. He's quite relaxed, which shocks me. I never seem to know what's going on with him, despite what he thinks.

"That was so uncomfortable."

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner. Weren't you there? Sorry about my dad."

"I thought it was fine. He's a great guy. Good food too," he says, running his fingers through the ends of my hair, which is down for a change.

"Thanks," I mumble, still frustrated.

"Are you upset?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"Because of this?" He points to his neck and adds, "It's nothing. I've had much worse."

I drop my head into my hands and want to cry. I wasn't referring to his injury at all, but rather my own discomfort during dinner. Who cares if I'm patient? I'm obviously selfish, and I don't know what to do about it. The simple fact of wanting Masen to stay here—mostly for me—makes me feel sick to my stomach. I push my self deprecation aside and focus on him. He's dealing with much bigger problems than I am.

"What happened?" I ask. I realize it's the first time I've actually verbalized my desire to know about one of his injuries.

"Mom made dinner tonight."

"And?"

"She hasn't made dinner since my dad's birthday."

I motion with my hand for him to elaborate.

". . . Two years ago."

I raise my head to meet his eyes. No one's made dinner for him in two years? "And you came here tonight?"

He shrugs.

"You could've cancelled."

"No, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I just couldn't. I wouldn't do that. Not to you."

"But—"

Masen silences me with a tilt of his head. "My dad was already . . . it doesn't matter. He would've—it would've been worse if I had stayed. Trust me."

Poor Masen.

I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest. He strokes my hair and sits in silence while I try not to cry. My dad stomps into the living room. He clears his throat, and I sit up. He gives me a look that says, _Say goodnight, Bella._

With much persuasion on my part, Masen lets me drive him home. We hold hands the entire way. The drive is short, but it doesn't matter; I want him with me as long as possible. We get out of the truck, and Masen plays with his skateboard, moving it around with his foot. He stops abruptly, pulls it up, and leans over to kiss me goodnight. I feel desperate to stay with him, so I tug his shirt, pulling him to me, making my intentions known with my mouth. He drops his board, places his hands on either side of me on the truck, and allows me to seek solace in the heat of his lips. It's really hot, but also probably really inappropriate. I don't really care though.

"I'm sorry," I say. I'm not even sure what I'm apologizing for—for being selfish, for getting him hit, for forcing him to let me drive him home. All of it, I guess.

He presses a kiss on my forehead. "I'm not."

Suddenly his front door opens wide, clanging against the brick of the house. A massive silhouette of a man is standing in it. "Is this her?" a gruff voice asks, and Masen shifts protectively, standing in front of me.

"Get in the truck, Bella." Masen's tone is severe but quiet.

"Come with me," I whisper into his ear. I'm so alarmed I'm shaking.

His father takes a step out of the doorway, the outside light revealing him. He's huge and intimidating, and I can't for one second imagine Masen being able to get away from him. I grip his hand and tug at it, pleading with him to stay with me.

He turns his head and whispers, "Meet me at the green." He rips his hand from mine and steps toward his abusive father, saying, "Go home, Bella."

"Oh, your girlfriend ruins our family dinner, and I'm not good enough to be introduced to her?" his father sneers. I can't stop watching their exchange. My hands turn to fists, and for the first time in my life I want to attack someone.

"No, you're not," Masen says brazenly, and a sickening smack crackles in the air. Masen folds like a rag doll and swivels his head to me, mouthing, "Go!"

His plea jolts me into action, and before I know it, I'm driving away from his home, tears streaming down my face. My mind is in a state of panic, and I'm lost, unable to find my way to the green. I slow my pace and stop to look around for a street sign, but everything is blurry due to my wet eyes. I find my way eventually and sit, waiting beneath our tree, making myself as small as possible and trying to cry as quietly as I can.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the rumble of skateboard wheels crunching over the asphalt of the parking lot. I'm up and running without a second thought as Masen skids to a stop when he sees me. He doesn't move but tells me he's sorry again and again. He looks okay. I hope he's okay. "Are you okay?"

He nods.

It's then that I lose my composure. I crumble into sobs and throw myself around him with complete abandon. "You can't just—people shouldn't ever be treated like—I don't want you to—please don't go back there, just—" I don't complete any of my thoughts. It's not possible because my head is clouded with images of Masen falling to the ground. Why was he falling to the ground? Why did his dad hit him? His _dad_? What is wrong with his dad? What father could do such a thing?

My tears falls ceaselessly, and I stuff my face into Masen's neck, wiping any moisture from my eyes and nose on his shirt. He doesn't care; he just holds me tight in his arms, but it's not enough. I need more—more assurance, more connection, more Masen.

I kiss his cheek, neck, and collarbone where his injuries reside. Someone needs to make him better. Someone needs to take care of him. Today _someone_ is me.

I slide down his body and wrap my fingers around his, then pull him to our spot beneath the tree. I sit down, never letting go of his hand and yank him toward me. He lets his board go free; it rolls a bit before stopping, but he doesn't seem to care. He's focused on me, on my eyes. He's searching them, seeing if I'm okay. I'm not. I've never been this not okay.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I can't bear to hear him ask about me. I'm fine, physically. Irrevocably changed because of what I've witnessed but fine, nonetheless. "Are you—"

I stop him, pressing my lips to his.

It's panic, it's distraction, it's careless—it's what I have to do. It's the right thing. It's the _only_ thing that makes sense right now because _we_ make sense. Nothing else in the world does.

He lays himself on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms. I pull off his shirt, making him collapse. I don't care. My shirt is gone in a flash, too, and our hands and mouths become frantic.

His tongue in my mouth begs me to go further. I'm so glad he wants this, too, because I need it to cure my lost innocence. In fact, I think it will cure anything. Masen and I together—like this—is the antidote to the poison we're a part of.

Desperate and yearning, we rid ourselves of our clothing and roll around in the damp grass. I grip his neck and crush my mouth to his as his body slides over the top of mine. With his hands on my hips and his face hidden in my neck, we make love for the first time. Panting and kissing and pushing and pulling bring us both to release. Out of breath but slightly calmed, I kiss him, slow and deep, keeping the connection between us.

My hands fall from his hair and run down his back as we continue to kiss. Tears fall from my eyes, and a small sob escapes my lips.

"Bella, please . . . shh, don't cry. I'm okay. Please, don't cry." He wraps his arms around me and holds me, shushing me all the while.

He makes me feel so safe, which only makes me feel guilty. Who's making him feel safe? Has anyone ever made him feel safe? I force down my sadness and wrap my arms around him, hugging him back.

"You're okay. We're okay. Okay?" he asks, voice soft and soothing.

We hold each other silently, my breath finally normalizing. I feel so much better, more at ease. Masen does that to me. He calms me. I don't know how he can after all he's been through, but he does.

With his legs wrapped around me, his chest pressed against my back, he kisses up and down my neck. I sit up straighter and pull my shirt back on, while his hands run underneath it, kneading my skin. With his lips at my ear he whispers, "Come with me."

I whip my head around to face him and kiss his warm lips.

"To California," he explains. He looks directly into my eyes. He's serious.

"You want me to live with you?" It's barely a whisper.

He nods and kisses my lips softly.

"I want you with me. The thought of leaving you here with these people, in this town, and my parents . . . I just—come with me." He's pleading, begging. He said he never begs anyone. I guess things change, or people do when the circumstances are right.

"I . . ." I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. For once I'm the quiet one with nothing to share. He casts his gaze downward before gathering his own clothes and getting dressed. Even though my truck is here, he pushes me home on his skateboard—one hand on mine, the other on my back, like always. It seems right to give him this, to let him bring me home. I wish he could stay with me.

We stop at the curb, and I play with my fingers. "Will you please . . . don't go home tonight. Can you stay with Tyler?" I can't look at him. If I do, I'll start crying again.

"I'm sure it'll be fine." _What will be fine? Going home? Or staying with Tyler?_

I don't have it in me to voice my questions, so I nod.

He walks me to my door and kisses me goodbye. The movement of his lips tells me he really wants me to move to California. It's sad and full of longing. I feel exactly the same way. I want to be with him too. I don't want to hurt him, God knows he's been hurt enough, but what would I do in California? Go to school, I guess. That was the plan here. And I suppose community college is community college if I choose that route. But what would I tell my dad? What would I do about money? I'm just a kid. Masen might be ready for the real world; he's had to grow up fast, but I haven't. We're just so different in that respect. Moving with him would be the scariest thing I'd ever do, and I just don't know if I'm ready to be on my own.

He pulls away but comes right back in again and kisses me, then says, "Just think about it."

"I will." _I already am._

I stay on the porch and watch him skate away while tears flow down my face. How can I possibly go with him? How can I make this work? I wrack my brain trying to figure it out, but it seems impossible. We're too young, too immature, too clueless to live together playing house. The thought makes me jump to the image of Masen falling to the ground in front of his home. Thinking about what he might face if he returns doesn't do me much good, and I cry harder. I wish there was something I could do to help him. I want to be with him, I do, but I don't know if I can.

After calming myself, I enter the living room to find my dad sitting on the Lazy Boy, glaring at me. I sniffle, and the tears run freely again. His features soften, and I sit on his lap like a small child, wrapping my arms around his neck. I really do depend on my daddy at times. "I love him so much," is all I can say.

Dad rubs my back and simply says, "I know, kiddo."

I wake in the morning with a throw draped over me and a Post-It on the side table. It reads, _Hang in there. Summer's almost here, and before you know it, you'll be moving on. _

I wrap the blanket around me and close my eyes, attempting to go back to sleep—attempting to change the course of my life. Sleep doesn't help one bit. When I wake, I'm just as confused as ever, and my life still blows. But my Dad's words stick with me. Maybe he's right; maybe I can move on, but I don't want to.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Perry Maxwell, my beta, will have her story, Unrequited, on The Lemonade Stand poll this week. Check out her amazing, gut wrenching story and then vote! Leave her some love too.

I owe a big ol' thanks to my amazing team. I adore you all.


	15. The Day Masen Wants Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Listen to Your Heart cover by DHT, If I Could Stay by Terra Naomi

**Chapter 15: The Day Masen Wants Me**

I spend my Saturday moping, stuck in my head. My stomach churns when I imagine fists flying and landing on Masen, but then I remember the owner of those fists is a loser in every sense of the word. He thinks he's won, but Masen is the real victor. I know this by the way he held me underneath our tree, by his sweet and gentle ways. He's loving, in spite of the way he's been treated. It's amazing, really.

And me? I thought I knew who I was, but I guess not because if I knew myself, I'd make a decision right away, wouldn't I?

It's after dinner when I call Masen, worried his mother will be pissed off if she answers the phone. Because it's the only way she ever answers the phone. To my surprise, I'm greeted with kindness and courtesy.

"Hello?" she answers, voice soft, cordial.

"Hi, can I talk to Masen?"

"Sure, he's just in his room. Let me get him." I don't hear much but assume she's moving through their hall, not that Masen's room is at the end or something. I wouldn't know, having never stepped foot inside his house. "Edward, phone. It's Bella."

Masen's, "Thanks, Mom," is muffled in the background.

Then she speaks quietly to him, the receiver lowered, I guess. "Let's run and get groceries when you're done, okay?"

"Okay." There's a clink and a shuffling noise, then Masen's on the phone. "Hey."

"Hey, your mom sounds different. Good different."

"Yeah, she's trying. She's, um, it's been a while."

"Oh, good. I'm . . . that's good, right?"

"Yeah, this is the longest she's been sober since I was . . . I don't even know."

"Mmm." I wait for him to tell me about this development with his mother, but he doesn't, so I continue. "Well, Angela called, and everyone's hanging out tomorrow. Dinner, I guess. Do we want to go? I mean, I do."

"Sure."

"Okay." I stare at my corkboard, building up my courage to ask what I've been dying to ask since leaving him last night. "How was your night last night?"

"Good. Ate dinner with my girl and did some _other_ stuff. That—that wasn't so bad, either. Better, even. Did—I mean—did you have a good time? Like, did you, um . . . because we can always . . ."

I close my eyes, thinking about the night before—the good portions of it—and giggle at the cuteness of Masen's question. "Don't hurt yourself, Masen."

"Shut up. I've been thinking about it nonstop, and you make me . . . all nervous. I—I kinda want—I mean, I want it to be good for you. So, uh, was it? Good?"

"It was _so_ good."

"Good." His response is brief, but his voice is filled with pride. The smile on his cute face must be reminiscent of when he masters a skating trick—excitedly happy yet humble.

I switch the phone to my other ear and push my back against the headboard, readying myself to try questioning him again. I just go for it. "Where'd you stay last night?"

"Home."

"And did . . . are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Was your dad—did he—"

"Bella, I'm fine. I skated for a bit, thought, roamed. He was passed out by the time I got home. I wish—I mean, you don't have to worry about me."

"I do."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Okay." His voice is quiet, like he's getting ready to fall asleep, but I know he's not. He's just pulling away from this conversation. I've got to figure out how to help him to talk, even when he feels uncomfortable.

Not wanting to cause him any more pain, I barrel on, telling him more about our plans for tomorrow before saying goodnight.

The following day Masen and I meet our friends with the basic idea of dinner and a time and place. We end up at a doughnut shop having Chinese take-out and playing Name that Tune. I love how laid back they are. Their mere presence in my life helps me remember I don't need to be so uptight. I can have loose plans and go with the flow—perhaps even when it comes to the difficult decisions looming ahead.

**-MD-**

It's Monday, and Masen and I haven't talked about California since he invited me. There's a little bit of awkwardness between us, but we push it aside. We don't have time for that.

We chat about Ms. Robinson's final essay as we walk down the hall hand-in-hand to get to the cafeteria. Masen's totally finished, and I'm a bit jealous for several reasons—the main one being that he knows what he wants to do with his life.

The boys finish their lunch quickly and head outside to skate, leaving us girls to ourselves. Angela slides over to me, and we watch the boys through the dirty window. My thoughts are focused on my dilemma: whether to go to California or stay in Arizona. It's killing me that I don't know what I want to do.

"Okay," Angela says, thumping my knee, "what's up with you?"

I wiggle my foot nervously, my flip-flop dangling from my toe. "Nothing."

"When's Masen leaving?"

"Right after graduation. Next day, I think."

"You miss him already, huh? And he hasn't even left yet."

I nod, concentrating on Masen as he flips his board over and lands on top of it. He throws his head back, laughing at some trick Alec bombs. After witnessing how his dad treats him, I'm amazed he even has the ability to laugh, the ability to be happy at all. I'm in awe of him.

Just last night Dad asked if I'd done my laundry yet, and I got all pissy because it was _my_ laundry and none of his business when I did it. After I was done throwing a bratty tantrum, Dad informed me he wanted to use the washer and didn't want to get in my way. I have it so great, yet I lash out over stupid, menial things. And Masen . . . Masen has every right to go off the deep end, to genuinely hate and mistrust people, but he doesn't. Yeah, I'm in awe of him. I wish I was more like him.

"Have you talked with him anymore about it?"

"No, but . . . um, he asked me to go with him." I gnaw on my thumb, trying not to tense up just thinking about the decision laid before me.

"Oh my Gawd, that's so great! And Alice is okay with that? Wait, are you okay with living with Alice. She did hug a bit like she was . . . well, you . . . but you said she was with Masen's cousin, so never mind. Oh, I'm so excited for you."

My chair squeals against the linoleum as I turn to face her. "I haven't decided yet; he just asked."

"Okay." She says the word long and drawn out, like she's so baffled by what I just said. She's trying to control her expression, keeping it neutral, but I can see it in her eyes: she's confused. I am too. I wish this was an easy decision to make, but it's just not.

"I've never . . . this is a big decision. It was already tough trying to figure out a way for him to stay here, but deciding whether or not to go with him is just . . . I don't know if . . . you think I'm stupid."

"No, this is a big deal. This is life changing. I get it. I just know what I would do, that's all. But you're not me. You're Bella."

"Whoever that is." I look away, frustrated with myself.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know . . . just ignore me. I'm in a funk."

"Clearly." Angela pulls on my ponytail, getting my attention. "Look, don't move because he wants you there or because I would go if Embry asked me. Go because you want to, and no other reason. You have to be smart about this."

"I'm trying to be." I sound so pathetic, voice soft and unsure. I hate this.

"Good. I mean, you did just get together, and there's no guarantee you'll stay together. You don't want to be in California by yourself if that's not where you want to be."

"I hadn't even thought about that. It's like my brain's not working anymore."

"It's working. It's probably just in overdrive or overheating. You need to reboot. Like, take stock of your life, figure out what's important to you, that sort of thing. Then you can weigh your options and make a good decision."

"I worry that . . . I'm losing myself. I don't want to be _that_ girl—the one who drops everything for a guy, but Masen's not just some guy. I just . . . I don't feel like I know what I want, but I do know that I love him." I close my eyes, picturing Masen hunched over his notebook, writing. He turns his head to peek at me, sweet smile on his face. It makes me smile too.

"Sometimes . . ." Angela starts but stops, rooting around in her bag. She pulls out a piece of gum. "Sometimes love isn't enough, but I don't think you're losing yourself. I think you're growing, and Masen's to blame for that. When you're not stuck in your head, you're glowing and stuff. It's sick to watch. You two are so happy together, and you complement each other. I always thought you were sweet and whatever, but the way you've gotten Masen to open up—even in front of us—is amazing. I never thought I'd see him lose his shy persona or be, I dunno, free."

"You haven't," I say, shaking my head, thinking about how goofy he really is.

"Dammit, see . . . _that_, that right there . . ." She thrusts a finger in my face, and I laugh through my nose. "That ridiculous look of I-know-way-more-about-him-than-anyone-else is what makes you two so great together. And I'm sure he knows you better than anyone else as well. I'm making no sense. But I guess what I mean is I see that in you too—you opening up, I mean. I don't think I would've gotten half of what you've told me in the last few weeks before you started dating Masen. He makes you better. And you were already good before him, just so you know." She throws her gum wrapper into her bag, an exclamation point to her words.

We watch Embry skate by the window and get reprimanded by a teacher. He looks apologetic but flips her off once her back is turned. Angela shakes her head yet smiles at her man's antics.

"When I was ten I wanted to join orchestra. I couldn't decide which instrument to play. My mom thought I should play viola, so I did."

Angela gives me a look like I'm crazy, but I continue anyway.

"I hated it. I wanted to quit. I was terrible at it, but I played it until I graduated middle school."

"Okay."

"I don't make decisions. I do what people tell me to do. I—"

"Okay, stop. That's total bull."

"That story is true."

"How many times have I tried to get you to tell me about Masen in the bedroom?"

"I don't think—"

"Just listen." She faces me fully and grips both my knees with her hands, making sure I'm paying attention. "And how many times have I tried to get you to watch scary movies with me?"

I don't respond; I don't think I'm allowed to. She's kind of in her bossy mode. I mostly see her this way with Embry.

"My point is a viola is dumb. It's not really related to your personality. When it matters, you do what you want, and you wanted to play in the orchestra. You made that decision, right? So you might listen to someone's advice, but who doesn't do that?

"You've never told me anything about you and Masen that you didn't want to, and you've never watched a single scary movie with me, or let me cut your hair, but that's beside the point. My point is—gosh, I talk too much—you know who you are. You don't let people bully you. You're just feeling insecure, and I get that. This is a lot to take in. I think you just have to figure out what you want and go from there."

"I don't know what I want."

"You'll figure it out."

"I want someone to tell me what to do."

"No one can do that for you."

"It sucks."

"I know, but you'll manage. You've got that hottie to help you out too."

"I don't think he'll be much help. We haven't even talked about it since he asked me."

Masen skates closer to the main entrance and pops his board up. He walks with it behind his back, head down, coming our way. Coming to get me.

Angela speaks up, pulling my attention from Masen. "He'll help; it just won't be in any way you expect him to."

"Thank you . . . for this, for talking me out of my chaotic mess of a brain."

"You're welcome."

Masen steps inside the cafeteria and keeps his gaze on me, waiting. The bell's going to ring soon. I stand and throw my backpack on. I lean down and give Angela a one-armed hug, whispering, "We did it on Friday."

She coughs loudly while I exit with Masen, smile on my face.

**-MD-**

My mind is much calmer after talking with Angela and thinking through her words for a couple of days. Now if only my hormones would behave. It's been several days since Masen and I had sex, and I'm completely fixated on his body. It's bad. Real bad. I find myself watching him differently. The reach of his arm across our table in English becomes erotic. The way he bites into his Clif Bar becomes erotic. The way he pulls my pen from my hair becomes erotic. It's exhausting trying to pay attention in school because I'm so focused on him, so I stop trying.

After a particularly boring day at school we head to The Wedge. He sits with me instead of skating. It's a first. I don't mind, but I wonder why he's chosen to do so. Perhaps he's just feeling the weight of his departure date on his shoulders. I know I am.

I work on a math assignment as he finishes up a paper for history. Every time I peek at him, I meet his eyes. It's distracting, and the more I do it, the more it befuddles me, but it also makes me smile. I really want to get out of here and drag him to my room to put a smile on his face in return, but I'm not sure how he'd feel about that. So instead, I chat with Angela.

When we start talking, Masen hops on his skateboard and joins the guys. As soon as he's gone, Angela starts berating me. "What are you doing?" she says, hitting me with an errant twig.

"What are you talking about?" I ask through laughter.

"Gawd, he totally wants to go home with you right now. If Embry gave me even one of the looks Masen has given you today, I'd throw down under the bridge, not caring who watched."

"Ew." She swats me again. "Seriously, what looks?"

She rolls her eyes and points toward the bridge. From this far off, it's hard to tell, but I'm fairly certain Masen's eyes are on me. "See?" she says, sounding boastful. "Just take him home."

"I . . ."

"Oh, wait, is your dad home?"

"No, he doesn't get home until dinnertime today."

Angela jumps to her feet, shouting, "Masen!"

She's always yelling. What is she doing? She better not embarrass me.

He skates to us, doing a complicated aerial over the stairs before landing at my feet. "Hi," he says, his lips curling into a grin, and I finally see it. His sea greens are lit up. He's showing off. He's flirting. He wants me.

"I'm going home. I might . . . uh, have some apples there. You comin' with me?"

"Yeah," he says and nods.

I snag my bag before mounting his board. I'd like to be mounting something else. He pushes me, and his hand on my lower back feels so much more present than it usually does. My mother always said, "Sex changes everything," and she was so right.

When we get to my home, Masen seems tense, shifting his feet from side to side and running his hands through his hair. I wish he would just ask if he could come in, but he won't. I simply hold his hand and pull him inside, up to my room.

I remove my bag and unbutton my shirt. Masen sits on the floor and pulls off his shoes. As I unzip my jeans, he tugs off his tee. He's completely silent while unbuttoning his fly and walking toward the bed. He's stunning in nothing but his leather choker and jeans, kneeling on my comforter, waiting for me.

I stand before him, nude and ready. He pulls me close by my waist, his thumbs making a small circuit on my lower back. His fingertips graze up my bare skin and run the length of my neck. With an expression of awe, he reaches higher still, pulling the pen from my bun, letting my hair fall freely across my shoulders. He smiles shyly and presses his hands into my hips, beckoning me to the bed.

In a less frenzied state than our first attempt, we make love on my twin bed. His breath and hands wash over me, his lips trailing warm kisses across my nude, exhausted body.

I lie face down, my head turned to the side, resting on my crossed arms. His fingers swirl on my lower back, and I sigh at the lightness of his touch. "We could have this everyday, you know." His voice is calm and reassuring.

He pulls himself up beside me, tucking his arms under his chest, his face across from my own. I play with his choker, enjoying the leather against my fingertips. We're barely touching, but it doesn't matter. We're closer than we've ever been.

"I want that. More than anything. To be with you," he says. I can't respond. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Instead, I kiss him and pull my hair into a bun grabbing my tie-dye pen from my nightstand to secure it. I get dressed and, in the process, gather his things and start handing them to him. He pulls his tee on, and I can't keep my eyes off him as he yanks on his pants. He is so hot. Who knew it could be so exciting watching someone get dressed? I stop my staring, and when I give him his shoes, I playfully tug them away when he reaches out his hand.

He tackles me to the ground, and I laugh hysterically, releasing the shoes. He puts them on, sprawls out on my floor, looking comfortable and so right in my space. I pull my pen from my hair and draw his feet into my lap. He sits up and watches me as I add another _Bella_ to his shoes. He bends his knees, so he can be closer as I work. He points to an empty checker and says, "Bella," then points to another, repeating my name over and over again until his Van is covered in my mark. It's absolutely adorable and leaves me wanting more than anything for his shoes to be true—for him to stay mine, for him to stay here with me.

I have to ask him for the things I want, the things I need. Angela's words come back to me, and I think about what she said about us knowing each other better than anyone else. I like what she said, but the truth is we're both still holding back. I'm not sure why, but I'm determined to stop that behavior right now. We have to let go, or we'll never make it together.

"Masen?"

"Hmm?" He looks up, takes my pen from me and spins it between his palms.

"I want to talk with you about something, but I . . . I need you to, um, not shut down on me."

"I shut down on you?" He's completely serious and looks so disheartened.

"You, um, sometimes I say something, and you just close up, and then I close up, and it doesn't help either of us."

"I . . ." His eyes focus on the pen, and he rolls the ballpoint across his finger, drawing a decorative B. "I'll try."

"Okay, I . . . well, what I want to say is . . . I've been thinking about it a lot, about me going to California, and I just—is there any way you'd consider staying here?"

Masen squirms and repositions us, pulling my legs into his lap. I'm not sure why, but I think the distraction will keep him from shutting down. At least, I hope. He pushes the hem of my shorts up and starts drawing his name on my thigh. The feather light touches of the pen and his fingers feel amazing, and if I weren't trying to have a serious conversation, I'd most likely try to proposition him again. There's something highly intimate about the way he's branding me; I hope he'll do it again, so I can fully appreciate it.

I wait while he gathers his thoughts, but he doesn't say anything for a long while.

"We talked about this." He's so quiet, head down, fixed on his artwork.

"No, we didn't. You wouldn't let me talk about it. I need to talk about it."

"Okay . . . talk."

"I . . . the idea of packing up and moving terrifies the hell out of me, to be honest. I feel so not ready for that. Like at all. And I know why you want to go, I do. I understand it, but I . . . I sound so selfish. I'm so sorry, but I just can't imagine you not here. I can't imagine you not in my life, and I love you, and we just got together, and I don't want to lose you. Is there anyway you'd be willing to stay? For me? With me?"

"I . . .this is . . ." He runs his hand through his hair and over his face, elongating his features in a display of his discomfort. He still hasn't looked at me, eyes trained on my thigh where he embellishes his name.

"I could talk to my dad. I think if he knew what was going on he'd be willing—"

"I don't—I've made up my mind. I have to get out of here. I can't just—I . . . dammit." His shoulders slump, the pen clinks on the floor—the sound equal to that of a jail cell closing. He splays his hands on the floor on either side of my legs. I pull him down so he's lying on my thighs and run my hands through his hair, trying anything to keep him talking. So far, so good. Well, better than our first attempt at discussing his departure.

"You could stay on the couch, or we could convert the garage or something. You wouldn't have to—"

"I can't stay in your home. You can't mess up your relationship with your dad for me."

"It wouldn't be like that. We'd—"

He cuts me off by squeezing my thighs as he wraps his arms around them. At least he's not shutting down; he's trying. We both are.

"What if—what if we get our own apartment? We'd have to find jobs, and rent is steep near ASU—if that's where we go—but we could manage. People do it all the time: school and work. We could make it happen. We could . . ." I trail off as he goes limp on my legs. He's completely given up or something.

"Bella." His words are muffled by the material of my shorts, but they're there, so I strain to hear them. "I can't. There's too many—my dad is everywhere. I'm done with Arizona. Done with this . . . life."

My throat constricts, and I don't try to stop my tears. Masen sits and smoothes his hands over my hair and down my back. I fall onto his chest and cry into his shirt.

"You know I don't want to leave _you_, right?"

"Yeah," I say weakly.

"Yeah?" he asks, a playful lilt to his quiet voice.

"Yeah," I say, lifting my head and kissing him through my tears, sad smile on my face.

My heart was raw to him, and he still shot down my ideas—but he hadn't shut himself off, which was good. I'm devastated but happy to know we can have an open and honest conversation where we both get to say what we need to say. I wonder if the fact that Masen was post-bang made him more open to have this talk. I think so. I'm going to pocket that information for a later date. Really, it's nice, but it also makes me sad. Just as we're letting go—just as we're beginning to see the full extent of each other's character—he's on his way out the door. Out of the state, actually. And I'll be here, unless I muster the courage to go with him.

I call my mother after he goes home for the night. I hope to get some advice about my predicament but discover, as usual, all my mother wants to do is talk about herself, her life.

"So, Phil's been temping at that insurance place. It's the one on Roker, remember?"

"Sure," I say, no interest at all in what she's saying.

"Well, a third grade spot opened up at Steiner Elementary. The teacher went into labor early. She's not gonna finish out the year. He's been offered the spot, but he's acting all dumb because it's not the grade he wants, and it's a few weeks before school lets out. But who cares? I don't get it. So stupid. He's a teacher. He should teach."

"What grade does he want?" I ask, trying to be conversational.

"Oh, fifth grade, like everyone else. It's coveted, but sometimes you just have to get your foot in the door. This is a great opportunity, and he better not blow it just because he's scared. Oh, hey, remember that therapist I was going to? The one with the bad wig?"

"Stimple? No, Sven?"

"No, Stevens. Geez, Bella, it's not like I've been to ten counselors."

"It's not?" I laugh at my own joke, and she huffs.

"You've been around your dad too much."

"He would disagree. He thinks I'm spending too much time with my boyfriend." _Perfect segue, Mom. Take it. _

"Oh, how is he?" _Thank you. _

"He's good."

"Good, so anyway . . ." _Oh, no. Opportunity's gone now. _She trills on about her therapist, and I do my best to listen. "So I gave Phil the same advice Dr. Stevens gave to me: sometimes you have to feel the fear, and do it anyway."

"And what did he do?"

"He's making tentative lesson plans right now, just in case. Isn't that great? I should be a counselor. Maybe someday I'll go back to school. Speaking of . . . you decide yet what you're going to do?"

Mom and I chat about my options for college, and she's helpful in the sense that she's taught several grades and can tell me the pros and cons of each. Her advice in that regard is invaluable since I'm still trying to figure out what grade I'd like to teach, or if I'd like to teach at all. But as far as her future career as a counselor . . . I can't see that happening; she can't listen for shit. Not that I was any better at listening to her tonight. Then again, I've been preoccupied with my own problems. I need to cut myself some lack.

After dinner, Dad and I clean up the kitchen, and he stops me before I head upstairs.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine." _I'm not. Give me some advice. Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do._

"You're awfully quiet tonight. Are you still mad at me about . . . look, I'm sorry I was pressuring you about college. I just want what's best for you. Lots of college students don't choose a degree right away."

"It's fine, Dad." I sound like Masen. Oh, dear.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I say and smile, wanting more than anything for Masen to show up at my house again and stay the night. I need him to calm me down, to tell me it will be okay, but it's just not possible. He can't come over in the middle of the night. My dad would go ballistic. If we lived together we could have every night to ourselves. Masen was right about that. Maybe he's right about some other things as well.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

Unrequited, written by Perry Maxwell is on The Lemonade Stand poll right now. Check out her amazing, gut wrenching story and then vote! Leave her some love too.

_ss77_ cracks me up with her comments and is dying for the final chapter to read. I'm sorry! Perry keeps Bella in check just for me 'cause "this here love is true, yo!" The catatonic, beautiful Mac makes sure I write everything in a fresh way. Dinx finds my itty bity mistakes, yet somehow manages to leave me so much Masen love in her emails. I love you all!


	16. The Day Masen Drives Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist:** Faster by Matt Nathanson, Say It's Possible by Terra Naomi

**Chapter 16: The Day Masen Drives Me**

I'm grumpy and moody all day at school. The gloomy weather doesn't help either. It's Arizona, so why are there clouds? It's like everything in my life sucks all at once: I don't know what to do about college, and Masen is leaving me for sure. I was holding out hope if I got him to really talk—and I did—that he'd willingly stay, but I was wrong. The gray cover sucks away my remaining will to pretend to be happy—though when I'm with Masen, I actually am. Without him, it's like there's a vise on my heart. It tightens each day, its goal to kill me by the time he leaves. It'll be a slow and painful death, or maybe I could just be struck by lightning . . . in Arizona . . . in May. Seems like it could happen because my life sucks.

Angela's chattering beside me before Economics class begins. I'm not listening. Apparently, I take after my mother. Awesome. She says something about Embry's "banana-yellow pants," and I laugh. It's too loud to be normal; people are staring at me.

_What are you looking at, jerks?_

"Nothing. Don't be such a bitch," a haughty junior says.

Whoops. I guess I said that out loud.

"Who are you calling a bitch?" A fight? I could do a screaming, yelling match right now. In fact, that sounds pretty good. I stand up, ready to put that bitch-labeler in her place with my words, but Angela grips my hand in hers.

"Come on, we're goin' before Mr. Baker shows up."

"Fine. Whatever."

Angela drags me down the hall toward Masen's sixth period class. I saw him at lunch only an hour and a half ago, and I was happy then. Being around him reminds me he's leaving, so I have no time to waste being grumpy—yet when he's not there, all I want to do is wallow in my misery. It's no good. I feel bad for anyone who's not Masen.

"You want me to get his attention, or do you?"

"I don't even know what we'd do."

"It doesn't matter. You lost it in there. You were gonna yell at a Mallory. That can only lead to one thing, and those sisters are nasty fighters: hair pulling, scratching, you name it."

I tell her I'll just take a break this period, but she won't hear it. She rattles off ideas, one after the other of things Masen and I could do together, but nothing sounds good enough or worth our time.

"Okay, well, is there anything you feel like you have to do before he leaves for California? Or maybe something you want to do for him?"

"I don't know. He can't drive. I guess it'd be nice to teach him how. Maybe then he won't forget me." I avert my gaze from Angela's pity-filled eyes.

She digs in her purse and pulls out a massive clump of keys. She puts them in my hand and curls my fingers around them. "It's an automatic. It'll be easier to learn on than your crazy truck. And . . . there's an emergency condom in the first aid kit."

I laugh, staring at the keys. "I won't need it."

"You might," she says.

"I've been on the pill for two years."

"Bitch," Angela says while kicking my foot. "Dammit, I hate it when a Mallory is right." She sprints back down the hall to our class.

I get Masen's attention, and he has to get a bathroom pass since the bell already rang. He picks it up but puts it right back down when his teacher's not looking. She also fails to notice he's wearing his backpack. Seriously, I wonder if teachers are truly this dumb or if they've just learned to ignore obnoxious adolescent behavior.

Masen and I head out to an old parking lot in a dilapidated strip mall. I become determined to teach him how to drive. It's really stupid and a total waste of our time, but I feel like I should give him something tangible he can take with him when he goes.

He knows the basics but needs a bit of instruction. He practices three point turns, parallel parking, and never fails to use his signals. He also never fails to flirt every chance he gets. He clearly doesn't want to be doing this, but he's humoring me.

"Okay, just swing the wheel around this way and sneak right in there."

"Right in here?" He places his hand on my thigh and inches upward, swooping in to kiss my neck.

"Hey, not _too_ far." I huff, and he catches my double meaning.

He nods, head turned away from me as he attempts to parallel park between two imaginary cars. "Do I, uh, get a kiss for doing it right?"

My resounding silence answers him, but he doesn't give up. He leans in and places a soft kiss against my neck, whispering into my skin. "Silky hair and heat and tongue, want her in the car, kissing my tears away."

I inhale shakily. Damn his words. They make me so hot. I repeat them in my head and then laugh. His head jolts back, and he smiles, eyes curious. "What?"

"You're not crying. No tears. You're trying to get laid."

"I—I'm . . . you—It's fine . . . I'll just drive," he says with a bit of grump to his tone. His lips pout in defeat, and if he weren't testing my resolve so much today, I'd hop into his lap and kiss that pout away. But today my focus is on teaching him how to drive. We can fool around later. I'm sure we will; we always do.

Regardless of his lack of devotion to the task, I have no doubt he'll be good and ready to get himself a license when he moves.

We need some groceries for dinner, so I suggest we stop at the store. The expression on his face tells me he doesn't like that idea.

"I know it's still early, but don't you want to stay for dinner?"

"I do—I just . . . I don't like being cooped up in this car."

"So we'll drop the car off and walk."

Masen agrees, but before we go, he coaxes me into the backseat.

He leans over me with his hand on my lower back, sliding me down. His lips are on mine, sweet and chaste. I need some warming up, I think, so this is good.

"How do you feel about it?"

"Good."

I'm not sure he even knows what I'm talking about because his mouth is pushing my v-neck lower, and I'm scratching his back.

"You're pretty good at this." The weight of his body against mine is so nice. I run my hands over the back of his thighs and pull him forward, forcing him to grind into me. He groans. Payback's a bitch, but in this case, it should be pretty fun.

"Like to practice," he says as I maneuver myself and latch onto his neck, making him squirm.

I push my hips up and lean in, my lips at his ear. "You knew just what to do with that gear stick."

"Bella—" His voice is hoarse, eyes closed tight. He's trying to contain himself.

"Well, you did." This is making me feel so much better. I flip us and pull his shirt up, licking a trail from his hipbone to his belly button. "Mmm, stomach."

He doesn't say anything, though I wait patiently for his response all the while kissing his defined muscles. I am so lucky in so many ways when it comes to Masen.

"Masen, I said _stomach_." I latch onto his nipple, and he gasps.

"Wh—what?"

"Stomach."

"Sex."

I collapse onto his chest in a fit of giggles. "That's pathetic," I say, catching my breath and wiping the happy tears from my eyes.

"It's—that's—it's all I got."

"Your brain's too busy thinking of ways to get me naked."

"I don't think it's—my brain . . . whatever, something _else_ wants to get busy."

I laugh hysterically, my face planted on his neck.

"It's not _that_ funny." He runs his hands over my back and sighs.

Realizing this is not the time or the place to "get busy," we make out for a few minutes. It's a rite of passage for every relationship, right? I'm just covering all the bases here—my truck has no backseat.

When we arrive at Angela's, she insists on driving us to the store. Masen can't say no, and neither can I, so we're stuck in the car with Angela playing twenty questions. Oh, well. At least Embry's not here; he makes it worse—his curiosity knows no bounds.

"So what were you kids up to today?"

"Just like I said . . . teaching him how to drive."

"Oh, please, everyone knows how to drive. It probably took you five minutes, so what else did you do?"

"Fine, you're right; we had sex."

Angela laughs, but Masen squirms in the backseat and starts playing with the wheels of his skateboard.

"It's a cramped space, but it does the job. Was it fun?"

"I was kidding, Angela."

"Boo!" she heckles, and Masen chuckles.

"What are you laughing about back there? You want her to know all our secrets?"

"I didn't say a thing." He lifts his hands in surrender.

"No, of course not; you leave me to fend for myself."

"You want me to fend for you? Fine, I'll fend for you. Go ahead. Hit me with your worst," Masen says.

"Favorite place?" Angela begins.

"Golf course," he blurts.

"Oh," Angela says, surprised. Her smile grows wide, and her eyes shine.

I glance at him, and all he does is shrug. What have I done?

"Favorite position?"

"Bah! No! Don't answer that!" I bellow.

Masen chuckles and scoots over into the middle of the seat so he can really be a part of the conversation.

"You're no fun," Angela says to me.

"Yeah, no fun," Masen reiterates.

I narrow my eyes but motion for Angela to continue nonetheless. "Fine. Whatever you want to say, just say. I won't stop you."

Angela turns off the radio, really getting serious now. "How long have you been in love with Bella?"

"Mmm, long time. December—probably earlier."

"Really?" I ask.

"Before zoo lights, I think." His forehead scrunches up, and he gets a faraway look in his eyes. He's really thinking about this.

"Aw, how sweet. I already knew that. Next!" Angela makes a turn, then asks another question. "Favorite thing about Bella?"

"Her tongue." _No hesitation._

I freeze, mouth gaping open. Angela swivels her head toward me saying, "Oh my Gawd. What have you done to him?"

I drop my head in my hands and moan.

"Already thinking about your tongue. Moaning's not helping me at all."

"Will you shut up?" I say through laughter, turning and swatting the air in his direction.

He shrugs and grins. So cute. "Come make me."

I unbuckle and hop over the seat as Angela smacks my butt.

"Go get him, girl," she says.

Masen pushes his skateboard aside as I plop onto his lap and kiss him to shut him up. His hands grip my lower back, and he pulls me closer, kissing me hard. Yeah, we will definitely have to fool around later.

"Hey, kids, don't make me come back there."

"Go ahead. I've heard a lot about your tongue. Embry doesn't shut up."

Angela cackles as I slump against Masen's chest, laughing. I can't believe he said that.

"Bella's in such a better mood now. Good job, Masen." Angela pulls into the grocery complex and up to the curb.

"Well, I try," he says, then mutters, "I was trying _something else_ earlier too."

Angela bids us goodbye and says, "I never thought I'd see the day . . ." _Me either._

Masen steers the cart while I fill it with produce and basics for the rest of the week. He rests his chin on his folded arms which are atop the cart. He looks like a little boy, bored out of his mind until he spies something he likes. My eyes follow his to a massive display of macaroni and cheese.

"Really?" I ask, mocking him. "Kraft is so gross."

"It's so good." He shakes his head, disagreeing.

"I'll make you real macaroni and cheese, okay?"

"Yeah?" His eyes are bright, hopeful.

"Yeah." I gather the supplies I need, and we check out. We only have two bags, so Masen sets me up on his board to push me home. Balancing is tricky, but I do my best, holding the bags to my chest.

It's a short walk, but rush hour slows us down since we have to be cautious of careless drivers. Plus, the cloudy day makes Arizona drivers stupid.

While we ride, the thunder begins to crack, a drizzle falling over us. The soft rain is nice as the air cools. We inch closer to my home, Masen jumping behind me to speed us along, but we can't outrun the rain as it begins to come down in a rare shower.

We're soaked and laughing by the time we're on my porch. We twist our shirts, wringing out the water, but it's no use.

"Let's get you dry," Masen says, and I smirk.

"Let's not." I open the door, heading inside with great speed. I throw the groceries in the refrigerator—bags and all—and remove my shirt while jogging up the stairs. Masen's just behind me, hand gripping the back of my waistband.

We turn into the bathroom, and I push him up against the door, kissing him hard while pulling his shirt up. With a bite of his bottom lip, I whisper against his mouth, "Want him in the shower, panting my name." I turn abruptly to pull my wet clothes off and turn on the water.

Masen groans, following me into the shower, watching everything, touching me everywhere, loving me, and—as expected—panting my name.

**-MD-**

I'm out of the shower first, so I pull on Masen's damp jeans, folding over the top for a better fit. I walk into my bedroom topless, hair dripping down my back. He follows me, saying something about needing his pants, but I ignore him, picking up a comb on my dresser and running it through my mop.

"As much as I love seeing you in my jeans, and really—um, it's probably like, uh, the—hmm . . . I already sound like a pig, huh?"

"You sound cute," I say, turning to face him.

His eyes squint, and his lips are pinched like he's in pain.

"Okay, I can't—I'm gonna—"

"You're gonna . . .? How about you tell me another poem?"

"No more poems today, and I can't believe you stole my poetry. Thief." He thrusts a finger at me but seems to lose his conviction when he notices he's pointing at my breasts. He's blatantly staring. I follow his gaze and giggle. He is such a boy.

"Will you hand me some clothes?" I ask, putting him out of his awkward misery.

He turns, shaking his head in disbelief, walking to my dresser. He opens my underwear drawer and starts mumbling about that "Lucky bastard, Justin Bieber" and hippies. He's so adorable, but I have no idea what he's talking about.

"Mmm." He lifts his hand from the drawer, a pair of underwear—ones he really likes—dangling from his finger. He's smiling like a pervert; I love it.

I snatch the underwear from his hand, and he smacks me on the ass. I yelp, covering my butt and glaring, but the smile never leaves my face. I can't believe he just did that. Not that I'm complaining.

With merely a towel around his waist, he lies stomach-down on the bed, watching me as I wrench off his pants and get re-dressed.

While Masen's clothes spin in the dryer, we make dinner together. He's wearing a pair of my boxers and a senior ditch day t-shirt. How appropriate.

Just like every other time we've cooked together, we find a good rhythm and always seem to anticipate the other's needs. We don't even talk as we do it. We don't need to; it's comfortable. Something I've grown to love—our agreed upon happy silences.

But the silence comes to an end when Masen blurts, "I feel like I have to—mmm, apologize."

"For what?" I hold up a spoon for him to take a bite.

He chews thoughtfully, then points to the salt shaker. "I just feel like I've been—I don't know, a bit—too . . . ever since we . . ." He motions between the two of us, and I nod. I know what he means, but this is silly.

"You don't have to apologize. I wouldn't just fall into your arms if I didn't have the desire to. I want to, Masen. I want to be with you."

He rubs the back of his neck and licks his lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth.

He doesn't say anything, so I go back to the dinner. I add the salt to the macaroni and cheese and stir it again. He grips the pot for me and places it on the trivet.

"I want to be with you too." He's quiet, his fingers playing with his napkin as he sits down. When I sit across from him, I look into his eyes and see the reserved red-headed kid I met at the beginning of the school year—the one I knew I wanted to get to know. The one with a hint of flirtation and a dash of mystery—the best recipe for boy I'd ever come across, and I had to have a taste. I want to savor it, always.

Masen pulls me from my thoughts and apologizes again. "I shouldn't have said all those things to Angela. I just was—I don't know, feeling silly."

"I don't really care. It's fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The buzzer goes off on the dryer, and Masen changes in the bathroom, suddenly worried my dad will show up even though he's still a good twenty minutes away.

We eat salad while the macaroni cools off. Masen starts talking again about our ride with Angela. "I don't think the best thing about you is your tongue. I mean—I—of course I like it, but I just—that's not the only . . . I'm terrible at this."

"At what?"

"At saying what I should—what a boyfriend should—I—you're beautiful, and I never even . . . there's so much I love about you, Bella, so much."

"Oh." _Wow._

"I . . . you inspire me. You give me all these ideas, and you let me just be me and never push, and I . . . it's great. _You're_ great."

"Thank you. I think you're great too. And . . ."

"And?"

"Well, I hate to ruin the serious vibe here, but—"

"Please do; I feel like an ass." Masen spears an enormous amount of lettuce and crams it into his mouth.

I giggle and take another bite, thinking about how to say this without sounding crass. I don't really think there is a way, so I just do my best. "I think our apples are pretty freaking awesome too."

"They're so damn good," he agrees, nodding his head. "I've been thinking about something your dad said, and I think he's right."

"What's that?" I take a sip of water.

"Well, I—you're so patient, and you've got this humor about you that's—it's kind of—it's—"

"Stupid?"

"No, shut up. It's disarming or something. But I think it would be perfect for older kids . . . if you taught, I mean. There's so many smart-alecky kids that just get looked over, but you'd catch 'em, and you'd probably also catch kids like—"

"You?" I finish for him.

"Yeah."

"Is that a good thing?"

"You got me to open up."

"But I was interested in you." I purse my lips and think over his words, trying not to take him too seriously, but knowing that I am—and that I'll obsess over his words later tonight.

"You'll be interested in those kids too. Not in the same way, because, um, jail and all, but you'll know, and you can make a difference like you did with me."

"How have I made a difference?" I say, tone disbelieving.

"You have no idea, do you?"

I sit and wait, stunned.

"You're the reason I decided to leave. You—you made me feel like I . . . like I was good enough, worth it to get away. And now the ironic thing is I don't want to leave you."

The garage door opens, interrupting Masen's heartfelt thoughts. Dad walks in, stops in his tracks, and narrows his eyes. Masen is here, and we're unsupervised. _Uh oh._

I lie, saying that Masen just showed up. What's one white lie when all I have are a few weeks with the boy I love? The boy who makes me feel amazing.

Dad doesn't believe me, but he also doesn't seem to care as he's stuffing his face with my homemade macaroni and cheese which, as it turns out, is fabulous.

**-MD-**

At school the next day, we're giddy—not outwardly groping each other and French kissing in the halls—but showcasing our love, for sure. Masen has taken to teasing me by spouting off poems while we walk, making me blush and wish the school day would end sooner rather than later. I don't get my wish; instead I get Masen stroking my fingers in English. Good enough for me.

His eyes are serious as he lays his head on the desk and concentrates on running his fingertip over my hand, slow and methodical. From this angle he looks different. Something's off about his lips. He smiles in response to my staring, and I watch as his bottom lip puffs out, swollen.

I run my thumb over it, and he kisses it. Damn his father.

When we're at his locker after class, I kiss his bottom lip. "I'm sorry about this."

"You should be," he says, filling his bag with the necessities. My mouth pops open in disbelief.

"I'm so sorry. We're you late again? Was he—"

"No, calm down. I'm fine."

I grit my teeth at those hated words.

When he speaks again his voice is smooth yet playful. "Seriously, Bella, you should be sorry because _you_ did it before _I_ had _you_ in the shower, panting _my_ name." His eyes roam my body, flirting on their own. He closes his locker and walks away with a glance over his shoulder—a sexy expression of arrogance—that nearly brings me to my knees. And I really wouldn't mind being on my knees. When will it be the weekend?

**-MD-**

On Sunday, Dad sits me down to have a chat. I wonder what he's going to talk about but notice the financial aid forms sitting on the coffee table. He pushes them toward me and points to my hair. I pull out the pen and begin to fill them out as he talks.

"You know I don't have much money, but I do plan to help you with expenses. I think if you stay here, you can save a lot of money as opposed to living, um, not here." He looks around awkwardly to avoid eye contact with me. "You are going to live here, right? Arizona, I mean."

"Mmm hmm."

"Good. It's cheap. Cheap is smart. And you don't want to do stupid things as a college student."

"Nope, I don't."

"Porch guy still going to California?"

I level Dad with a look, and he amends his question, swapping out "porch guy" for "Masen."

I reluctantly tell him that yes, Masen still plans on moving.

"He know what he's going to do with his degree yet?"

I assure him Masen has a plan which only reminds me that I don't, and that's depressing.

He sighs in relief and fidgets, rubbing the ring finger on his left hand. "Your mom and I . . . we were way too young when we got together."

"I know."

"And it just didn't work out."

"I know."

"I think if we'd waited a while or went to school first or something . . . maybe we could've worked."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Just make sure you think things through before making any big decisions, okay?"

"Okay." _Decisions._ I'm drowning in important decisions right now, ones that will most likely affect the rest of my life. I hate being an adult. It's too hard. Part of me wishes I'd stayed with my mom. I could just be a teacher's aid and get paid minimum wage while going to community college. I could easily put off a career choice for at least two years. That sounds heavenly, actually, except for the whole I'd never have met Masen part.

Dad pats me on the shoulder and sends me upstairs to finish filling out the forms. I sit on my bed and write out my date of birth, my social security number, and my address through tears. Am I really doing this? Moving forward, moving on . . . when Masen's moving away? It seems even in my indecision things are happening. I feel powerless to stop them, but I know I could if I really wanted to. Do I want to? I love Masen. That much I'm sure of. But is it enough? Can love get me through difficult times, through uncertainty? I don't know. I just don't know. So I cry. I think of all the advice from my friends, Dad, Masen, even my mother—mulling over it—and I cry. It's all I have the strength for.

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

_ss77_ is possibly the sweetest person on Twitter. Perry is not only an editor but also a collaborator of the best sort. Mac makes sure my sex scenes use words that don't make her feel icky. She also eats the best meals known to man. This has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that it makes me jealous. Dinx loves Masen, and I love her.

Thank you readers, reviewers, tweeters, and pimpers. This journey is nearing its end, and it is bittersweet to say the least. Thank you for your encouragement and kind words and for loving Masen in every way possible. He loves you too.


	17. The Day Masen Needs Me

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist: **Details in the Fabric by Jason Mraz, You Make it Real by James Morrison

**Chapter 17 The Day Masen Needs Me**

Just as I suspected, I spend a good portion of my night—and now morning—obsessing about what Masen said to me about teaching. I run a comb through my scraggly wet hair and get dressed for the day, thinking about my future.

My talk with my mom a few days prior was actually really helpful in retrospect. She made mention of ASU's great teacher training programs, and if I went there it would be a really good, solid plan. And my dad's right: teaching is something I've always wanted to do. I'm pretty good at it, and I really enjoyed tutoring when I lived with Mom. I could certainly give teaching older kids a try. And I can do that during my college years, right? Aren't there internships?

After waiting for Masen for a good ten minutes, I leave home and arrive at school alone. He's a no-show, which is somehow terrifying yet expected at the same time. I get to deal with his miscellaneous injuries and chaotic schedule, changing at the last minute based on his parents' moods or states of drunkenness or whatever the hell other reason. It's all a part of being his girlfriend, I suppose. I try to take it in stride, but it's still hard.

While I spend a lot of my morning nervous as hell for him, I realize he wouldn't want me to be so worried, so I take the opportunity to really think through my dilemma. By lunchtime I'm anxious to talk this out, and Angela—with Embry in tow—obliges me.

We sit beneath the bleachers eating our bland cafeteria food, trying to protect our drinks from the dust kicked up by smokers.

"So, where's your hottie today? You even know?"

I shake my head, and Embry glares at Angela.

"What? He's cute."

"Cute?" Embry scoffs.

"He's . . . winsome?" she says.

I chuckle when Embry scoots away from her, frowning in an exaggerated manner.

"Anyway . . ." Angela flicks Embry's thigh and continues on. "What's the latest news? Where do you stand?" I love when she jumps right in. Bless her.

I look to Embry, who seems nonplussed by this discussion. I guess he and Angela are the type of couple that share everything. Taking that in mind and having no time to waste, I open my mouth and spill all my fears and desires. Minutes later, I'm still blathering.

" . . . I mean, I need my dad to tell me when to come home, when I'm making stupid decisions, and that I need to go to school. I need him to tell me what kind of tires to get for my truck and what co-pay I'm supposed to give my doctor. Besides, the amount I know about college education is embarrassing. My dad had to get my paperwork and walk me through it. I don't know what I'm doing. I need help. And my dad won't lead me astray. Then again if I stay here, who knows when or even if I'll see Masen after we graduate."

Angela sits quietly after my rambling and fidgets with her boots. She hasn't said much; she's in listening mode.

Embry, who I thought would mind his own business even though he was eavesdropping, pipes up. "I totally get it. I don't know anything. Like _anything_. And even though this one here thinks she knows everything, really she's just good at asking questions to the right people. That makes me less scared. Plus, we're together. We figure things out a lot. Two heads are better than one and all that."

"Yeah, but isn't there something to say for experience? My dad knows this stuff."

"He does, and he's only a phone call away . . . no matter where you are," Angela says, patting my leg. She's been such a great friend through all this, never judging and always being truthful yet sensitive.

Embry has a hankering for Little Debbie brownies, so they go in search of a vending machine, leaving me to my thoughts. I pull out my notebook and put pen to paper, listing pros and cons regarding my problem. But my pen doesn't stop there. I start projecting into my future, writing goals and planning. The next thing I know I knock out an outline and rough draft for Ms. Robinson's "Where will you be in ten years?" essay before the bell rings. With my words on paper, I'm feeling much more confident about following through with my dream to become a teacher in hopes that, as Masen said, I can "make a difference." I really hope that's true.

**-MD-**

With school out and Masen gone, I sit on my bed, deep in thought, staring at my corkboard. Pictures and a few notes from Masen are plastered all over it, including a birthday card from my mom and my calendar tracking all my days until graduation. I have two weeks left before I'm a high school graduate and two weeks before Masen leaves for California—permanently. Without me.

After a lot of soul searching and a whole day away from Masen, I was able to think clearly, use my brain—not my heart or hormones—and have come to the conclusion what's best for _me_ is to stay in Arizona and attend ASU.

With these decisions behind me, I'm so much lighter—the feeling of being in limbo is gone. I'm free and unencumbered. Yet my heart still aches with want for Masen, and I don't know what to do about that.

I wish I was confident enough to go with him to California, but I'm not. I've had to deal with some pretty heavy problems in our relationship. I've acted responsibly given our situation, but that's irrelevant. None of the issues I've overcome with him—regardless of my adult-like behavior—change the fact that I need parental support because I'm a kid. And kids don't live on their own. At least, not until they're ready . . . and I'm just not.

I need time and space to grow, evolve, become an adult. And in time, perhaps I can join Masen in California. In fact, I'd love to. I don't know if he'll wait for me, but I hope so.

Feeling safe in my bed and good about my decisions, I stand, running my fingers over my calendar. My sloppy handwriting notes what Masen and I have done on each day we've been together. But it makes me laugh because every day since the day I've met Masen has been a Masen day. They've all revolved around him whether I was watching him from afar or he was kissing me on the golf course. While I'll be sad to see him go I'm proud of what we've created together and have no regrets.

As I contemplate when I can tell him all of this, my phone rings. It's Angela.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey, girl. I just saw Masen skating down the road. Fast. Embry tried to catch him to talk, but he was in his own world. He's either really pissed, probably running off somewhere, or coming to get some. Just thought I'd warn you if he shows up." She giggles, but her shaky laugh gives her away. She's nervous for him.

"Good to know," I say, meeting her fake laugh with one of my own.

Dad's in the kitchen paying bills, but I slip outside anyway to see if Masen shows up. I lie down on my front lawn, eyes to the sky. In regular Arizona fashion, the sky is clear, so I can't even look at cloud shapes. But I don't need any entertainment because Masen's just turned the corner, wheels click-clacking over the cracks of the pavement.

I stand and walk to the curb, facing him. He always commands my attention when he skates, but today is different, like I'm hypnotized or something. I cannot look away. He's all man in an undone button-up that flies away, showing off his tank underneath He pushes off the ground, covering so much asphalt. He takes a curb, getting low, powerful thighs keeping him steady and safe. He's feet from me when he skids to a stop, stomps his board into his hand, and walks the rest of the way.

I pick at my fingers as I search his eyes, then drop my arms to my sides. He doesn't halt his stride, just walks straight into me, dropping his board and lifting me off the ground in a tight hug. His breathing is ragged, and his hold on me is one of desperation. Whatever's going on, he needs me, that's for certain.

Without speaking I wiggle my way out of his grasp and tug his hand. He grabs his board and follows me up the steps and into my home.

"Dad, can he stay awhile?" I ask, keeping a firm hold on Masen's hand.

Dad doesn't even look up from his check register. He speaks into his paperwork in a bored tone. He's used to having Masen around now, it seems. At least, he's resigned to the fact that he's not going anywhere . . . yet. "Yeah, I have to stop at the supply store sometime tonight, but for now it's fine."

I lead Masen upstairs and into my room. I look him over, making sure he's okay. His elbow is bleeding but not much. It will scab over quickly, but he should probably clean it beforehand. Before I can get supplies he drops his board and takes off his shirt and tank top. My door is wide open, and I'm getting nervous. What is he doing?

He sits on my bed and pulls off his shoes. He scoots over and motions for me to join him. I lie beside him, wondering what he'll do next. He pulls me close and lifts the bottom of my shirt, exposing my stomach.

He nuzzles my belly button with his nose and kisses me softly just above my hipbone. He tucks his arms around my back and settles in, head resting beneath my breasts, upper torso skin-to-skin with my stomach.

In a shaky voice he pleads, "Touch me, please."

Without hesitation I run my hands through his sweaty hair and trail my fingertips down his back. He relaxes into me, his breath calming.

"This is just—it's . . ." he says, voice muffled by my shirt, "exactly what I . . ." He lifts his head, locking eyes with me. "You . . . you're exactly what I need."

My heart slams in my chest, my throat tightening, tears threatening to fall, but I keep it together. He needs me strong right now, and I can do that for him.

He leans forward, loosening his grip a bit so he can kiss me. It's slow, meaningful, and somehow chaste. This is not about lust; it's about connection, intimacy.

He tilts his head and gazes into my eyes as he speaks. "He knows I'm leaving. I—he broke my mom's hand."

I draw him in, kissing his forehead and coaxing him back into my arms. He resumes his earlier position, clinging to me, and I keep my fingers moving around his back while we lie in silence.

Masen's even breathing and the stillness of his body tell me he's asleep, but I'm not moving from my spot—not even when my father's loud work boots approach my bedroom.

He peers inside, scowl on his face. I raise my hands off Masen's back, opening them wide as if to say, "What do you want me to do?"

Dad taps his watch and then disappears. The sun's not down yet, but that doesn't mean anything. It's probably past seven. I massage Masen's shoulders with my thumbs, and he rolls his head to the other side. I rub his neck next, and he groans softly. It's a really sexy sound, one I've become accustomed to hearing, in this room even. "Masen," I call softly. "It's time to go. You have to get up."

"Yeah, okay," he grumbles into my sternum. He slides his arms out from beneath me and pushes up so he's hovering over me. His hair is a mess, and he has creases on his face from my shirt. I run my fingers over them and pull his head down so I can kiss his crazy hair.

"You're cute all groggy," I say.

He chuckles quietly and gathers his clothes. He stands as he slips on his shoes and nearly falls over. His eyes go fuzzy; he looks dizzy. I stand beside him and wrap my arm around his waist to steady him while he puts on his Vans.

"When did you eat last?"

"I'm just waking up," he says. I narrow my eyes so he'll answer me. "Had dinner last night."

"You haven't eaten at all today?"

He shrugs. I don't think he's going to say anything, but he surprises me by explaining himself. "Mom's been buying groceries, cooking. I can't keep up with the cleaning—especially in the mornings. She forgets, even sober, so Dad knew something was going on."

My heart breaks for Masen. This is just awful.

"She's been giving me cash for lunch and spending money, which is a first, and he flipped out. It was . . . it's never been . . . it was . . . bad. Got out as soon as I knew my mom was okay."

I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight. No wonder he needed me—to get away from this madness.

"At least . . ." My words sound lame already, but I attempt to sympathize. It's all I can do. "It's only two more weeks."

"Yeah." He squeezes me back and kisses my forehead when I look up into his pretty green eyes.

"C'mon, let's feed you."

After our stomachs are full from submarine sandwiches, we lie in the back of my truck in the parking lot of Subs and Such. "Do you want to talk about it some more?" I ask.

He shakes his head and reaches out for my hand, drawing it to his chest to play with my fingers. "Thank you. For today."

"You're welcome." I sit in silence, holding his hand, thinking about how I can tell him that I can't go with him to California. It seems impossible. I don't even think I can speak the words.

"It's getting late; you should get home. Charlie will be worried."

"I know. I . . . thanks for trusting me. It means a lot to me. I know it must be hard."

"When it comes to you . . . not at all." He props his head up on his hand and brings my hand to his lips, kissing it.

As I drive him home, I succumb to the truth of the situation. This is really happening—Masen is leaving, and I am staying. We have two weeks, less than that now that this day is over, so we have to make the most of it.

I reach out and find his hand on the bench, grabbing hold of it. He scoots closer to me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. We drive in silence around the neighborhood, taking the long route, lengthening our time together. We pass a woman wearing a large purple hat and matching velvet tracksuit. She's singing to herself while shuffling along using a walker that's covered in purple crepe paper.

I point to her, using our joined hands, and we both laugh. "You're really gonna miss Arizona, huh?"

"Arizona? Not so much." He shrugs. "I'll miss some things. Well, maybe _one_ thing," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners, smile shy.

I squeeze his hand and take a deep breath. It will be so hard to tell him that I can't go.

**-MD-**

The rest of the week is simple. I'm calm now that I've made my decisions, and it helps me to be more open with Masen even though I haven't told him I'm not going with him to California.

Even though we hang out with our friends still, we spend most of our time by ourselves, wandering away from The Wedge, seeking out hidden places at the park. When we're not there, we're most likely having sex in my room or at the golf course. We also take strolls there, too—hand-in-hand like today. Even though it's getting hotter, and it's becoming more uncomfortable to be outside, it feels good to be here with him. It's sort of where it all started.

"Talked with Alice; she's excited." His thumb rubs circles over my knuckles.

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

We come around a bend and sit in the grass, watching the ducks meander around the pond.

"We, um—so there's a community college near the Art Institute, Santa Ana. Not far at all. It has, um, it's a good school. Affordable. Alice knows lots of people that did their general studies stuff there and then went on to university . . . wherever."

"Did she go there?"

"Alice went to Cal State Fullerton. Scholarship."

"That must be nice. No loans." I lay my head in Masen's lap, keeping my eyes on him. He pulls the pen from my hair, lazy smile on his face as he runs his fingers through my strands.

"Yep, I'll be paying back my debt for years."

"It'll be worth it, though. All of it."

"I think so. I mean, I hope . . . I hope a lot of things." He looks away, staring at the ducks once again, but keeps his hands busy in my hair. He's not very specific, but the meaning between his words is profound. He's telling me to go with him, that he wants me there, so much so that he's researching, trying to make the decision easy for me.

"Do you wanna go on a date this weekend?" he asks. The contrast of the boldness of this question and the weak attempt at convincing me to go to California is interesting. I wish he would always be this bold, always tell me what he wants.

I lift my head for a kiss, and he obliges.

"What's that for?"

"It means yes."

His grin is contagious. Now we're both smiling like fools.

**-MD-**

Masen plans our entire date and insists on paying for it, much to my chagrin. I can't be too put out by it, though, because he is beside himself with joy, absolutely beaming when we arrive at The Sugar Bowl in downtown Snobstale.

We order our meals and chow down right away. I love seeing Masen eat. It's amazing to see the transformation of his body, even only after a month or so of me sharing meals with him. He's had a lot of weight gain, and while he wasn't too thin before, he's just right now. It also helps that all the weight gain he's acquired has gone straight to muscle mass, making him look more delectable than the dinner I'm eating.

I keep my eyes on Masen as he chews, delighted and excited for his future. Everything will be better for him once he gets out of here. I can see that now—focus on it instead of my pathetic insecurities.

Masen breaks through my thoughts when he finishes his mushroom bacon burger.

"I talked with my Aunt Erin last night."

"I thought her name was Esme."

"Mmm, yeah, no. Esme and Carlisle are Jasper and Rosalie's parents. Erin is the youngest. It goes Esme, Elizabeth, Erin."

"That's a lot of E's."

"And Edward," he says, pointing to his chest, smiling. It's the first time I've seen him smile at the use of his name. It may seem foolish, but I think that means he's growing up, moving on. I like it. Makes me proud.

"Erin has the cutest kid. She's three, wait, maybe four now. Don't remember—birthday." His words are garbled as he starts shoveling fries with two hands into his mouth.

"They live in California too?"

"Yeah, she—Maddie—picked out my shoes last summer."

"I like this kid already."

"You'll love her, I mean, if . . ."

"Masen—"

He cuts me off. "Aunt Erin wants to pay for my flight out. Carlisle usually does it, but Erin's a hopeless romantic, and she wants to, um, fly us both out." His eyes remain steady on his drink, but his fingers fiddle with his utensils.

"Masen?"

"Hmm?" He won't look at me.

"I decided that . . . well, I've been thinking a lot, and . . ."

"It's fine." He picks up his cup and finishes off his Coke.

"I don't think that Tustin is the place for me. I mean, not right now, at least." I grip his fingers.

"I already knew," he says and squeezes back. "I just hoped, you know?" He finally peeks up, just for a moment, then stares at the salt shaker.

"I think for now it's the smartest thing for us to do what's best for both of us individually, and maybe someday . . . I mean, maybe . . ."

"Yeah." He says the word like he's expelling it.

We order dessert, and the mood is sullen as we eat our ice cream sundaes.

Even though I drove, Masen's been carrying around his skateboard. Habit, I guess. But still a little strange for a nice date night. Oh, well.

We walk around the quirky downtown area in silence. I wish he'd talk to me. I don't want our last week to be like this.

"We still have another week together." I'm hoping to change the mood. Plus, I'm optimistic this isn't the end of us. Who knows where we'll end up? If we're meant to be . . . we'll be, right?

"We do. I'm being all melancholy, huh?"

"Little bit." I shrug.

"It's so damn cute when you shrug."

"It's so damn cute when _you_ shrug."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Do it."

Masen shrugs, and I fake-faint so he'll catch me. He's not on guard, but his quick reflexes snatch me before I hit the pavement. Masen's bent over me, and we're both belly laughing. His board is on top of his foot since he dropped it in order to get to me in time.

"Wow," I say, catching my breath. "I'm more important than your skateboard."

He rights me, shaking his head. "You're the _most_ important thing to me."

"Okay, now I'm really swooning."

There's a click-clack coming down the road, and we both divert our attention toward the sound.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know I do."

"Run!" Masen takes off, and I scramble after him. A horse-drawn carriage passes us, and we chase after it. He reaches behind him, searching blindly for my hand. His skateboard hits the asphalt, so I grab his hand and hop onto his board. He's right behind me, pushing us closer until he's holding onto the back of the carriage. We hang on, enjoying our free ride—enjoying our moment of unadulterated teenage fun. The wind in my hair and Masen's laughter in my ear is exhilarating and just what we need to lighten the mood.

After our romantic horse-drawn carriage ride—sort of—we head home where we say goodbye on my porch.

"How did you know? About me not going, I mean."

"I just . . . I never get what I want."

Tears prick at my eyes, and they fall. I can't stop them; I don't want to. I want to cry for the both of us. Our love story is tragic . . . at least, for now it is, so I let the emotion wash over me.

"Hey, don't cry." Masen pulls me into a hug and tugs at the ends of my hair. "I don't want you to be sad. You said . . . we could still—later, right?"

"Yeah. I just think I need some time to grow up, you know. I feel like I still need my parents."

"Okay." He leans in, soft lips caressing mine, telling me secrets and making promises to me.

We pull away, and I wipe my eyes, leaving him with a smile. I don't want him feeling bad for me. I want him to be happy he's moving on to bigger and brighter things.

"Goodnight, Masen."

"Goodnight." He kisses me again, his hands fastened to my back. I cup his head against my shoulder, and he lets out a shaky breath against my neck. "I love you, Bella." His words are so quiet, but they speak volumes.

"I love you too."

We squeeze each other and kiss with an intense longing and passion. I really wish my dad wasn't home so I could take him upstairs. That's not possible, so we do the best we can to show each other the depth of our feelings before parting ways.

**-MD-**

After I get ready for bed, Dad knocks softly on my door.

"Come in."

The door creaks as he enters. He walks around my room, looking over my things—my walls, in particular—glancing at pictures and such. "You have fun?"

"I did."

"You seem awfully depressed for someone who had a fun date."

I shrug.

"I know it's not really my business, and heaven knows I won't actually be able to do anything about it if—but—I have to talk to you about something."

"We are talking."

"Bella, is Masen running away?" Wow, this is serious business; he used Masen instead of "Porch Guy."

"No."

"He's not?"

"No, his mom knows he's moving."

"And his dad?"

"Yeah." I turn away, not wanting Dad to see I can't even talk about Masen's dad without getting upset.

"He's abused, right?" His words come out in a rush, like he had to get them out before he lost his nerve.

I whirl around, plopping onto my bed. I don't know what to say. These aren't my secrets to tell, and even if I did, it's not like anything will come of telling my dad—not now, anyway. It's too late. It's probably always been too late.

"Look, I know you love him, kiddo, but kids that are . . . Masen seems like a nice guy—aside from the weed—but . . . I worry for you. Does he treat you—"

"Dad, just . . . trust me, okay? He's great to me in spite of what's going on in his . . . family. He's the strongest person and so sweet."

"Okay, I trust you. You've always been a good judge of character. I just worry."

"You always worry about me, huh?"

"I think so. Dad's obligation."

"Not every dad."

"Well, every good dad worries."

"Well, thanks."

"You're welcome. So . . ." Dad sits beside me on the bed, his thigh brushing mine. He pats my pajama-clad leg, making me feel five years old. "You said you were staying here for school, but I imagine you've thought of going to California."

I sigh and drop my head onto Dad's shoulder. "I have. He invited me."

"You are an adult now, and—"

"I don't feel like it."

"Well, you're a hell of a lot smarter than I was at your age. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Your mom did good."

"You both did good, and I appreciate you thinking I'm so grown up. Honestly, I feel very young and immature most of time. That's why I just told Masen I'm not going. I need time to grow up."

"I think that's for the best."

"I think so too." My tears come again, slowly trailing down my cheeks.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though."

I cover my face with my hands and bury my head in his shoulder. Dad holds me while I cry, patting my hair. He is such a good dad; I really need to give him more credit.

"I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, kiddo."

**A/N:** Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!

_ss77_ is encouraging me to write about my crazy husband next. EvriomentalWard? Anyone? I'm not so sure about this. Perry kept a walker from wearing a large purple hat this chapter. She's awesome like that. And that purple hat lady is real, yo. AZ's full of crazies! Speaking of crazy, did you read Unrequited's update? OMG, seriously? Seriously! Mac is winsome! She made this chapter infinitely better by getting me to revise some scenes. It was such a learning experience. Thank you. Dinx has read the entire story, and, dare I say, liked the whole thing. I know! She also spent about an hour convincing me to write more. We'll see . . .

Last week I wrote, "This journey is nearing its end, and it is bittersweet to say the least." Lots of readers made lots of assumptions about my words. Just to clarify I was speaking of my experience in writing this piece.

Thank you for the endless tweets, pic/music gifts, pms, reviews, emails, alerts, favorites, and follows. I will always remember how amazing this experience was because of you. Thank you!


	18. The Day Masen Leaves Arizona

**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

**Prereader: **_ss77_, Dinx **Betas: **Perrymaxed, Mac214

**Playlist: **Better Man by James Morrison, Endlessly by Green River Ordinance, Drown by Carolina Liar

**Chapter 18 The Day Masen Leaves Arizona**

I'm straddling Masen on my couch. Dad went out for a few minutes to pick up some groceries, so I took the opportunity to squeeze some kissing into my night. Masen's hands trail up my back, his lips slide over my neck moving down, down. I'm doing my best to keep this activity PG-13, but Masen's whispering poetry against my breasts. I might just give in and make it R, but we don't have much time before my dad gets home. We could wait and go somewhere later, but we're both in the mood now. I'm not sure what to do.

When did things get so complicated?

I thought my life in Arizona would be easy, no big deal. I thought I'd make some new friends, get my diploma, and start college. But my entire world turned around when I met a quiet boy on a skateboard.

Now that skater sits beneath me—gorgeous and sweet and still reserved. His words—though few and far between—always draw me in. Like they're doing now. Only they're doing more than just that. They're getting me naked, which is fine—better than fine.

Masen and I hop upstairs to my room where we make the best of our alone time. We're doing that a lot lately since he's leaving at the end of the week. Something I'm finally coming to terms with, I think.

–**MD-**

Masen meets me in the morning, and we share breakfast together: peanut butter-topped pancakes. He has a huge smile on his face, while my dad cracks jokes at the table about our co-dependency on all things peanut butter. He's lightened up a bit since we had our talk over the weekend. He's not questioned me about where I've been or who I've been with. He knows, and he trusts me, which is so nice. We've come a long way.

I drive Masen to school, and we chat the whole way, enjoying each other's company. We walk to and from class together when we can, share our lunch, and exchange notes between periods until the last bell rings.

It's Monday, and we only have two more days of final exams. Ms. Robinson's class is officially over today, but she requested to see Masen after school. I stand in the doorway, waiting for him to finish his conversation with her. I always knew she favored him but never knew how much until now.

He stands near the table we've shared for the school year, shoulders tight, hands crammed in his pockets. He's listening but looks uncomfortable, like her words are painful to hear. That may be, but they're positive words. He deserves every one of them, and by the serious tone in her voice, she's going to make sure he listens.

"I want to make sure you keep your final essay. I want you to promise you'll follow through, okay? And no matter what happens, no matter what life throws your way . . . keep writing. It'll get you through anything. I know it helps me, and you've got some talent, more than most of the kids that walk through these doors. They don't even know what a noun is. So I hope you use your gift."

"I will. I'll . . . try."

"And do you remember what I said? Life happens. If things don't work out like you've so brilliantly planned, keep trying. The worst that could happen is that you fall hard, maybe even flat on your face. But you're a skater—a good one from what I've seen—so you know what's that's like. You try, you fail or fall, then you get back up and try again or try it a different way. Just . . . do what inspires you, Mr. Masen, and you'll be fine. Better than fine. All right?"

"All right." Masen nods and pulls his hands out of his pockets, extending one to grab his paper. He extends the other to shake her hand, but she pulls him into a hug. He shrugs under her embrace, smiling at me from across the room.

"Take care of yourself, and I'll see you in a few days at graduation."

I'm glad I tagged along. It's nice seeing an adult compliment him on his work, his ambition. He has a lot of it, more than me, that's for sure. Something else I admire about him.

**-MD-**

It's late Tuesday, and Masen just went home, lips swollen from our escapade at the golf course and our goodnight kisses in my bedroom. Even though I'm spending more time with him than I ever have, it doesn't feel like enough. The days are too short.

Dad and I talk while I eat a quick snack before bed. He's taken to having actual conversation of substance with Masen and addressing him by his name. It's nice, although a bit annoying. Too little, too late, if you ask me, but it still feels good to know he likes my choice of boyfriend.

I've even caught them talking a time or two while I rummaged in my room for my purse or shoes. They always quiet down as soon as I'm in view. I often wonder what they're saying, but I leave them to their secrets.

"It won't be long now. Graduate." He articulates every syllable of his last word.

"I can't believe how fast this year flew by."

"You're telling me. I was . . . scared to death when you moved here."

"Mmm," I say, shrugging and taking a spoonful of my yogurt.

"I was sure I'd be fighting off boys, and we'd be at each other's throats, but you've been . . . I mean, this was great."

"It is great. It will continue to be great. _I'm_ great."

"You're such a brat."

"You love me."

"I do. I'll be a bit, mmm, sad when you decide to move out."

"I hope it's not for a long time. I want to mooch off you for as long as I can, Daddy." I tuck my hands under my chin, bat my lashes, and give him a wide, childish smile. He thumps me on the nose and laughs.

"I hate to admit it, but I hope you do too. I guess we'll see. Won't we, kiddo?" He doesn't wait for my response—just stands and stretches with a large, obnoxious yawn. He's such a man's man. I half expect him to grunt and scratch himself, but he doesn't.

"Night, Dad," I say as he mumbles something in return and clomps up the stairs.

**-MD-**

"Bella. Bella . . ."

I stir, turning onto my stomach. I don't want to wake up. I'm having such a good dream. I'm making out with Masen on a beach, and my swimsuit seems to be askew. Mmm . . .

Someone's rubbing my shoulder and giggling. "Bella, hey . . ." It's Masen. What the hell is going on?

Adrenaline courses through me, and I bolt upright in bed. "Are you okay? What is it? What's happening?"

"It's fine, shh. I want to . . . will you go somewhere with me?"

"What time is it?"

Masen looks past my shoulder at my alarm clock. "Almost midnight. Will you come?"

"My dad will go crazy. What's this about?"

"Oh, I talked to him already. He let me in. He's cool."

"He's cool?"

"Yeah." Masen chuckles and throws some shorts on the bed. "Get dressed."

Not fifteen minutes later, we've stopped at a twenty-four hour Starbucks, and we're driving to The Wedge. I have no idea what's going on, but Masen's knee is bouncing with excitement.

We park, and I slump out while Masen bolts from his seat and runs around to my side. "The guys did something for me. Kind of a goodbye. C'mon." He kisses me, and we jog hand-in-hand to the bridge.

As soon as I see our friends, they shout and applaud our arrival. Angela's in pajama bottoms and flip-flops, her hair in a knot on top of her head. The other girls look about the same, but the boys are all dressed, skateboards in hand.

Angela saunters to me and takes a gulp of my drink. "What have I been telling you? Embry's the best." She motions under the bridge, and I follow the direction of her finger with my eyes and smile in agreement.

The Wedge has been equipped with makeshift ramps of plywood, two-by-fours, PVC pipe, and a hell of a lot of duct tape.

"When did you find out about this?" I ask Masen.

"Embry stopped at my house, knocked on my window. I almost took him out."

"Oh my Gawd, that would've been so funny. The other day he—"

"Masen! Get the hell over here!" _Tyler._ Interrupting as always. I roll my eyes. It's really just habit at this point. I know he doesn't mean any harm by stealing Masen. I get it now, but still . . . why does he always interrupt?

I laugh as Masen gives me a sad puppy dog look and shove his shoulder, telling him to go. He doesn't need my permission, but I appreciate the sentiment anyway. I can't stop my smile as Masen kisses me, whoops, and runs, hopping onto his board to play.

I sit with Angela, closer than usual to the action, so we can holler at our men and clap when they do something exciting. My voice gets hoarse from all my yelling because our friends are so good at these stunts. I knew they were good, but with the addition of the ramps, I can really see much more of their capabilities. I'm no expert, but Masen seems to be the best, and it makes me feel superior in a way. It also helps that he's the hottest. I'm dating the best, most gorgeous skater in Arizona. Lucky me.

I'm thinking about Masen's agile body and the way his thighs sway sinuously from side to side as he rides a curve. Angela thumps my knee, eyeing me. "Look at you all happy because tomorrow's the last day of school."

"Uh huh."

"And all happy 'cause Masen's happy."

"Yep."

"And all happy because you're totally going to doink him afterward."

I smoosh my lips together and try to stifle my giggle.

"You're such a slut," she says.

"I know." I shrug, and we bump into each other, laughing.

Masen skates up to us, taking a long pull from his gallon of water and hops up next to me on the wall. "What's so funny?" He wipes his brow with the edge of his shirt, exposing his abs.

Angela elbows me, and I kind of want to smack her.

"Nothing," I say, grinning, trying not to give myself away.

"Nothing, my butt. Bella wants you, Masen. Always has, always will." She jumps down and hollers for Embry. She's ready to go now that she's thoroughly called me out.

"That true?" Masen asks, smug smile on his face.

"Maybe," I say, sipping my drink and keeping my gaze on the remaining skaters.

He leans in, lips close to my cheek. "Maybe as in . . . maybe later you'll go to the golf course with me?"

"Mmm hmm." I nod, biting my lip.

"Yep, it's true." He kisses my cheek and jumps from the wall onto his board, riding until his feet are in the air and he's gripping plywood with one hand. How does he do that?

"Masen, you sexy beast!" Embry shouts from afar. He's such an idiot, but I love him. I'm glad I'll get more time with Angela and Embry. They'll keep me company in Arizona while everyone else moves away—including Masen.

I wave goodbye to my friends and catch a few air kisses from Angela.

Soon, we're the last ones at The Wedge, and I lie on the wall, memorizing the way Masen's body moves gracefully from one position to the next while he rides curves and planes and rails. He catches me watching and ducks low, skating my way and waving me to him. I hop down and jog, meeting him half way.

"C'mere . . ." Masen stands a foot away, and I take a step closer. Then another and another while he coaxes me with a smirk and crooked finger. He taps my foot with his, indicating for me to get on his skateboard. I bend over and kiss it first for good luck. When I'm upright, I glance at Masen who was unashamedly checking out my ass. He takes a step behind me, his knee behind my own, and I hold my breath, remembering what it was like the first few times we rode together like this. The sexual tension was unbelievable, and, surprisingly so, it's just as fierce now. "I wanna show you something."

I peek over my shoulder, seeking a kiss, but Masen stops me, wrapping his arm around my waist and propelling us to a graffitied wall. Once close enough, I glide my hand across the surface, feeling like a real skater as I finally move my foot along with his. My insides tumble, and my breathing deepens when he flexes his hand against my stomach and breathes against my neck. I kind of want to take him here, but we're at a park. It's closed, though, has been for several hours.

Masen's mind seems to be in the place mine is because when he stops, he traps me against the wall, his hands on either side of my head, hips pressing against me. His lips are so close I can feel his breath on my mouth.

"Turn around," he says against my lips.

I twist within the tight space he's allotted me and am met with graffiti that stands apart from the rest. This isn't spray paint; it's marker. Thick black marker, the lines and curves reminiscent of those drawn on the underside of Masen's skateboard. It's only one word, but it's done so artistically, it's stunning.

"It's you." His cheek brushes against mine as he comes in closer, chest pressing against my back. I'm distracted by his proximity, so my brain's not working. I don't understand what he's saying. "The word—_beautiful_—it's you, Bella."

"It's me?"

He nods against my shoulder and explains. "The day I met you, I went home and thought about you for hours. Finally called Alice. Came here at night 'cause I couldn't sleep and ended up doing this. Didn't know what would happen with us or if we'd even get beyond our first conversation. But I wanted to. I was hopeful you'd talk to me again. Anyway, I guess I put this here as a reminder of what I wanted, of what gave me hope . . . you."

"I love it." I run my hand over the decorative _beautiful,_ and smile. I can't believe he immortalized me here.

Masen rotates my hips with his hands, getting me to face him again. I love when he moves me where he wants me like that. "The golf course is kind of—and I'm all sweaty and gross, but—um, how do you feel about . . ."

"Yeah, definitely." I nod and slide my hands into his hair, gripping it in fistfuls, pulling his mouth to mine for a firm, hot and heavy kiss. His hands grip my hips, and he lifts me up so I can wrap my legs around him.

"I really want this," Masen says, his words muffled against the skin of my neck where he kisses me next, making me breathe even more heavily than I already am. He lowers me down and tugs at my shorts. Wow, we're really doing this here.

In a dark corner under a bridge where we first met, I say my own goodbye to Masen—my body speaking the words I can't bear to say anymore. _I love you. You have forever changed me. And I will always, always be yours. _

Masen sits with his back against the wall, legs spread wide, a tired yet happy grin on his face. "You're so good to me," he whispers, playing with the pocket of his cargoes.

"It's because you're so cute." I crawl between his legs and entwine both my hands with his, sitting back on my heels.

"Is that why?" He shakes his head, like I'm being so ridiculous.

"Well, and because you're so good to me too."

He laughs and stares at our joined hands on top of his legs.

"Don't laugh at me. You really are."

"Says the girl I'm deserting." His tone is suddenly sullen, quiet.

"What?" My head snaps up, eyes catching his. "No way. You deserve this, Masen. You've been good to everyone in your life: your friends, me, your mother. Don't think for one second you're doing something wrong 'cause you're not. This is the right thing. And as much as I'd love for you to stay, I see now it would never work. You couldn't be happy here."

"I'm happy with you."

I frown, and his head drops to my chest.

"I don't want to leave." His words are like daggers, piercing my resolve.

"You have to." I wrap my hands around his head, lifting it so he'll look at me. "It's the best thing for you."

"You're the best thing for me."

My stomach lurches. Why is he saying these things? We've been over this. I wanted him to stay before, but now I get it. I see what being here does to him. Hell, just last week I was cradling him in my arms like an infant because his dad was terrorizing his family. He cannot stay here. His mother—though sober, last I'd heard—will certainly drag him back into this mess. It's what she does; it's why he's stayed here all these years even when loving family members have offered him their home.

"Masen . . ." Tears come unbidden to my eyes, and he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around my waist, head buried in my lap, body shaking.

He turns his head to the side, rubbing his cheek against my thigh. "Maybe I could just . . . stay for a year or . . . just . . . to be . . . we could get an apartment like you said, like you wanted."

I fold over the top of him, my emotions overtaking my body as I cry into his back. "You can't," I squeak. "You can't be here. It'll ruin everything you want."

"You're everything I want," he replies, motionless, voice vacant of life.

I have to do something. He can't do this. He can't stay here for me. I'm nothing compared to his plans, his whole life's happiness. Why can't he see that? I hoist myself up and tug at his biceps so we're face-to-face. "Okay, look, here's the . . . new plan, okay?"

He nods, sad eyes searching for solace in mine.

"I'll go one semester at a time. We'll, you know, stay together. Do the long distance thing. We'll call, text, visit. We'll do everything in our power to stay connected. After each break we'll revaluate to see where we are."

"You mean where you are. I won't change. What I want is constant: you."

I exhale, thinking about what I can say. "You can't give up on your future for me."

"You _are_ my future. I just want to be with you." He scrubs his hands over his face and continues on. "You want commitment? I'll give it to you. I'm in this one hundred percent, Bella. I love you. I want to be with you always. I'll do whatever I have to do to prove that to you. I'll—I'll go wherever you wanna go. I just shouldn't stay here. I want to, so—so bad, you have no idea, but I shouldn't. I just shouldn't, and I'm—it's killing me.

"Just . . . figure out a new place, and I'll go. I don't care where it is so long as I'm with you." His last words are so sad, and I want nothing more than to make him feel better.

I shake my head, closing my eyes. He's making this so hard. I shiver, getting rid of my nerves. "We—no. We can't go anywhere else. That's a bad idea."

He drops his head again, but I continue talking.

"You already have your plan. You're going to Tustin in a few days, and you're going to go to that great art school, and you're going to do amazing. You're going to create the future you always wanted."

"Yep, and I'll be miserable." He picks at his shoe and slaps his hand on the concrete beside him, then mutters, "Worse than when I'm here."

I push his shoulders up and climb into his lap, my hands on his cheeks. This calls for some heavy-duty girlfriend uplifting, I think. "You are the most resilient person I know. You are kind and sweet and good and so, so, so capable of being happy anywhere. If you can be happy living with your dad and all that that entails, you can be happy anywhere, right?"

"I can try," he says, conceding.

"Please try. You have to. You deserve to be happy. You were so happy tonight. I want to see that again. I want to see that in . . . say . . . three weeks when I take a road trip to visit you. How's that sound? We can find a golf course or some dirty bridge we can share delicious apples under, okay?"

"Three weeks?"

"Yeah." I nod and move my hands to his shoulders, squeezing.

"You promise?" He hugs me and tucks his head between my chin and my breasts, kissing the flesh just beneath my collar.

"Yeah."

"Yeah." He exhales, his shoulders lowering with the movement.

I peek around him, glancing at his artwork, and an idea pops into my head. "Why didn't you put a big heart around it?"

"Because that would be girly and stupid." Oh. His mood's certainly improved. Or he's just run out of the ability to think before speaking. "That was mean. I'm sorry." He kisses up my neck and gives me a quick peck before sitting up straight. "Will you add to my shoes?"

I grin and move from his lap, pulling the ever-present pen from my bun and putting it to work against his Vans. With a shoulder-shaking laugh, I draw an apple in one of his checkers.

When I finish, Masen chuckles and says, "I like it. In fact . . ." He steals my pen, hops up, and draws a much better version of an apple. It surrounds his previous artwork on the wall.

"What I wouldn't give for a tattoo of that. So hot."

Masen raises his brow and drops to his knees, lifting my shirt and drawing on the bare skin above my right hipbone. A repeat of his apple sketch surrounds a very fancy, very bold _M_. It appears I have been branded, and I'm not complaining one bit.

**-MD-**

On the last day of school, Masen and I sit in the quad eating my homemade sandwiches. Masen and his mother made some peanut butter cookies he brought with him. The image of Masen baking with his mother swirls in my mind, but it's fuzzy because I've never seen her. I'd like to meet her someday.

I take small bites of my turkey sandwich, keeping one hand linked with his. I don't want this day to end. "How's your mom?"

"Good. Her hand will take a while to heal. She, uh, she lied about what happened when she got the cast, but at least she's taking care of it. That—I mean, that's something. I guess—I dunno."

"I think . . ." I put my sandwich down and stroke the hair above his ear, running my finger over the contours of it. "I think your mom has seen what an amazing man you've become and how brave you are. She's learning from you. I don't think she'll stay. Not forever, anyway."

"Maybe . . ." Masen leans into my touch, so I expand my circuit over his ear and into the hair on the nape of his neck. He always seems to love that.

"She's still sober, right?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, maybe you're right. I've seen it before, but—she's never—I mean this seems different, like she's trying hard. It's good to see her fighting."

"She made you, Masen. She's got some strength and bravery. She'll find it like you did."

He tilts his head up, eyes seeking mine, and mouths, "Thank you, Bella." It brings me back to the first time I saw him with a black eye, and pride rocks through me. He's done it; he's broken free. He kisses me, lips lingering on my cheek when he's done.

"Speaking of parents . . . your dad's amazing. I just, I—thought you should know. You should—I dunno . . ." Masen shrugs and gazes at our clasped hands, figuring out the rest of his words, I guess. "Just—maybe be happier he's your dad. And tell him. He likes it."

I smile at the thought of Masen and my father talking about me, and I do think on his words. I need to be more grateful. I have been privileged in so many ways, and I need to be happy for what I have. Period. I will be.

Before the day is through we've exchanged five notes, hid out in two janitors' closets to make out, and made plans for the evening. Tonight is all about us and a golf course where a boy and girl had their first kiss. When we get there, we don't speak many words, but our eyes and bodies communicate plenty.

**-MD-**

The end of the school year is upon us. It's the day Masen and I graduate along with our friends. The speeches are lame, but the sentiment is bittersweet. It's the end of an era. I'm embarrassed to be crying at such a silly ceremony, but I can't help it.

I find Masen once the festivities are over. He hugs me, and I can't let him go. Angela calls my name, catching my eyes from afar. She holds her hand up to her ear in the shape of a phone, asking me to call her later. Tomorrow, I guess, since she'll be out at a grad night party.

My dad, full of congratulatory plans for Masen and me, runs into a snag when a client calls, needing assistance straightaway.

"Well, I gotta go. This pregnant woman who's overdue says she'll leave her husband and move out if her air conditioning isn't fixed."

Masen nods, but I just stand there. I'm only half listening as he's holding my hand, and my whole body instinctively knows its job is to home in on that—on Masen and his presence.

"Okay, well, good job, kiddo. And . . . Masen—in case I don't see you again . . . uh, good luck and remember what we talked about."

"Okay," Masen agrees. He extends his hand, and Dad shakes it, pulling Masen into a guy hug, patting his back. It's quite fatherly and sweet and pulls me a bit from my hand-holding induced haze.

As much as I'd like to celebrate with my father, I'm happy about the change in plans because now I can say goodbye to Masen properly. Once my dad is out of sight, I bring Masen home to my bed.

We don't leave it for a few hours.

Late in the evening—and after my dad's checked in on us—we sit on my bedroom floor, talking quietly. Masen drags his ratty backpack onto his lap and pulls out his notebook. We pore over it together, reading poems and chatting about his drawings. He's added a lot since the last time I saw it. He hands it over and tells me he wants me to keep it to remember him by.

With no time left and tears welling in my eyes, I speak up, my voice shaky. "When's your flight?"

"Eight, but I've thought about changing it . . ."

"I'm really going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too."

I can't stand the idea of him going and hug him like a maniac. He returns the force of my grip with enthusiasm. When he pulls away, he wipes tears from my eyes.

He reaches around me and pulls the pen from my hair, keeping eye contact with me the whole time. His silence, sea green stares, and gentle touches are always ridiculously sexy. I will miss him so much and am already looking forward to my visit to Tustin.

He pulls my feet into his lap and doodles on my Vans again. He kisses me one last time on my doorstep before skating home. He leaves tomorrow, apparently at eight. . . . without me.

**-MD-**

The morning is cloaked in the bright, hot sun. I hate it. It's too early to get up and too sunny and cheery for such a crappy day. But I can't sleep, so I slide out of bed. I grumble to myself as I go about my morning routine, showering and getting ready, trying anything to distract myself from the sorrow I know will overtake me. I can't allow myself one second to think about what's happened—or what's currently happening—or I will lose it.

I stand in front of the mirror, slipping my pen into my hair to secure my bun. As I lift and maneuver myself, my shirt rises, exposing my stomach and the marks Masen drew. The apple has faded, but the _M_ remains, vivid and strong, like the man who drew it.

Refusing to cry, I move on to another task, cleaning out my school bag and organizing my clothes to deal with my grief. As I go through my shoes, I come across the Vans I chucked in there the night before. I sit for a minute, nearly inside my closet, and I read the words meant for me.

_Days and days without grace_

_Meaningless and drab_

_She appears, her name too perfect to be real_

_But it is, so is she_

_Her essence, deep and vibrant, awakens me_

_Her eyes see faith, hope where I see none_

_Her hands seek the truth, roaming my skin_

_Setting me ablaze with her fervor_

_Love's cruel, playing with the young_

_Taunting, tempting, torturing me_

_But I will still love, and I will wait_

I clutch the shoes to my chest and cry, sobs wracking my body, snot running from my nose and not caring about any of it. I'm only able to think about one thing and one thing only—he's gone. He left. Without me. And I let him. Why? Why did I let him leave? Why didn't I go with him?

I collapse to the floor, curling inward around my precious shoes that contain a small piece of his love for me. He is so amazing. Everything about him astounds me, and I admire him in so, so many ways, and I let him go. Why did I let him go?

My mind wanders, covering time and space, images in a mass of color and shapes, memories, and so many words. Words of longing and advice and love.

_Come with me._

_Go because you want to, and no other reason._

_We could have this everyday, you know._

_Sometimes you have to feel the fear, and do it anyway._

_You inspire me. You give me all these ideas, and you let me just be me . . ._

_Just make sure you think things through before making any big decisions._

_Two heads are better than one . . . _

_Do you trust me?_

_If things don't work out like you've so brilliantly planned, keep trying. _

_You _are_ my future._

What am I doing? Have I been deaf to everyone around me this whole time? Have I only been hearing what I wanted to hear? What I thought was safest for me to hear? Have I been walking around with blinders on? Or am I just ridiculously stubborn and stupid?

Every single, positive advisory phrase I've heard in the last few weeks floats through my head, penetrating my thick skull. Each tells me to go, to get the hell out of here, to follow Masen. I sit up, my head in my hands, thinking so hard—beyond my ability—to find a way out of the hole I've dug for myself.

And then the words come to me unbidden, as though uncovered, having been lost somewhere in the recesses of my mind. Ironically they are my own. A scene unfolds behind my closed eyes. I'm wearing a soft, white dress, and Masen lifts me from my truck. I follow him through his own door, his way, thinking to myself, _Wherever Masen wants to go, I'll go._

My eyes pop open, my head turning to check the clock on the night stand. It's 7:12. If I speed, I can get to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport and flag him down, stop him from going without me. If worse comes to worse, I'll buy a ticket using my emergency credit card and meet him in Tustin a few hours later.

I'm on my feet in a second, shoving clothing and shoes and essentials into my backpack. I can't do it. I can't stay here. I can't be left here. He can't leave me. Why would we wait? It makes no sense. What would be the point? Angela's right: my dad is only a phone call away whenever I need him. And I can become a teacher anywhere. But love? Love is rare. I can't get it just anywhere from anyone. And I've found it. Why would I give it up?

I want to go with him, to be with him. Sure, I'm scared, but isn't every young adult? He accepts me for who I am, flaws and all. So what if we've only been together for a short while; I trust him implicitly. Besides, we'll figure it out together. Isn't that what adult couples do? I've thought about it—all of it—my whole mess of insecurities and excuses, and what I know is I want to be with Masen.

That's all that matters. The rest will work itself out.

I race downstairs, dialing Angela along the way.

"Did someone die?" her gravelly voice answers.

"Tell me I'm doing the right thing."

"You're doing the right thing," she parrots.

"I'll miss you, and I'll call you when I'm in California, okay?"

"Oh my Gawd, Bella—" Her voice perks up considerably, but it doesn't matter. I don't have any time to waste.

I hang up, not needing anything else but my own acceptance to do this, but it was still fun to call my girlfriend. I know she'd want to know.

I leave a scribbly letter on the kitchen counter for my dad and race out onto the porch, determined to get to Masen. I don't have to go far because he's sitting on his skateboard in my driveway. He's slumped over, shoulders sagging, head in his hand. He looks like how I feel—or, at least, how I felt minutes ago. But what is he doing here?

"Hey," he says, lifting his gaze, eyeing me.

"Hi." I'm breathing heavy, and I'm sure I'm a sweaty mess. I'm also a bit in shock due to my last minute decision to go with him.

"What's with the bulging bag?"

"Why are you here?"

"I changed my flight for later. Came to say goodbye, but it's been—anyway, I wanted to kiss you, really." He shrugs, and I don't mind it one bit. I never really did. It's quite endearing.

"Don't."

"Why?" His face falls.

"I'm going with you."

"Wait . . . w-what?" His eyes go wide with surprise. "You said you weren't—and that you—and your dad—so, um . . . you're . . . huh?" He is so adorable when he babbles.

"I'm going with you." I turn around and lock my door, then meet him at the bottom of the steps. He stands before me, skateboard forgotten. He looks down, his hand playing with his penny-colored hair. He lifts his head, shaking it as it rises. His expression is guarded but positively giddy.

"I'm not leaving 'til twelve today. But now, I dunno. I guess I should cancel, if you wanna drive there. I mean—are you sure you're—do you wanna—" He fidgets, checkered Vans shuffling awkwardly against each other, hands crammed into his pockets.

"Okay, stop. Don't do that. Just calm down. I'm going with you. I mean it." I place my hands on his chest, and he pulls me into a massive hug, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales.

"I just . . . this is . . . I don't ever get what I want, ever. No matter how much I wish—how much I want, and I . . ."

"You what?" I push him away gently, giving us some distance so we can talk.

"I'm not sure I believe it."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"No."

"Have I said something to you I didn't mean?"

"No." He looks at his feet, but his lips curve up at the corners.

"Then believe it because you're finally getting what you want. And, um, you're stuck with me and my bright white halo. It's going to be all shiny and annoying."

"I don't think it will be." He smirks and bites his lip, looking adorable while bouncing on his toes.

"No?"

"No. So . . ." He points to my backpack and continues. "Do you want to bring something more than two outfits and a toothbrush? You realize we're moving there, not just having a sleepover, right?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

I drop my bag and lift up on my tiptoes, kissing him soundly. When I'm done, I whisper into his lips, "You were supposed to say yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah." We kiss again, and he pulls me back up the stairs.

"Let's get you packed."

"Masen? Remember when you worried about my dad when you first met?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, you should probably be a little worried."

He shrugs, snags my keys, and opens the door for me. Once inside I look him over, taking in the boy I adore and appreciate, the boy that changed the whole course of my life. And I know one thing is certain: this is right.

"I can handle him. We get along a lot better now. He gets me. Kinda like you do, actually. Plus, it's worth it. You're worth it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Masen grabs my hand, pulling me inside and leading me into our shared future.

**A/N:** I'd like to thank so many people that were a part of my team, so be ready for an over-long author's note. LuvinJ, you are the sole wolf-girl attached to this project and have been with me since I started posting ff. You've encouraged me to write even when it involved a boy named Edward. That's pretty awesome of you. _ss77_, anytime I needed you you were there willing to stay up late or use your only free time to preread. You're an excellent cheerleader. Perry, I can't even begin . . . all the tweets, g-chats, emails, back and forth edits . . . you never once complained or said you didn't have time or you couldn't do it. I don't know how that's possible, but I'm so grateful for your availability, insight, and the quality of your work. Masen Days would not be what it is without you. Mac214, you know I admire you like a silly girl with a crush. I knew you were talented but had no clue just how smart you are or just how many grammar rules there are until I worked with you. Thanks for all the advice, links, explanations, and challenges. I will forever be fearful of _that_, filter words, and clichés. You will always be winsome in my book! Dinx, you are my one beta who asked to be a part of this team . . . was it worth it? Don't answer that. I will answer it. I am so grateful for your help. I knew I could count on your not-chicken eyes to catch all those tiny errors that slipped past the rest of us. To my whole team: thank you, thank you, thank you.

I never thought that anyone would really care about Masen Days. I remember being excited when it hit 10 reviews on the Boys on Boards contest. So you can imagine my response when this story hit 100 reviews, and it's now over 2000. It's insane. I never thought it would garner much attention. But it did. The readership and excitement over this story has surpassed my wildest dreams. I feel so honored to have shared my story with you and have so many people to thank for getting the word out and making this journey a successful (and ridiculously fun) one . . .

Thank you to Jamie Arkin for drawing attention to my story through a read-a-long, to Onebravelamb for reviewing it on The Lemonade Stand, for MsJaxTeller for providing awesome music for each chapter, and for Anniej13 and Chicklette for hosting Boys on Boards. This story would not exist without that contest.

Thank you to every reader, reviewer, and pimper. Every time I got a tweet, pm, review, comment, follow, alert, or favorite it put a smile on my face. Each picture, song, gif, banner, story that you shared with me made my day. I'm amazed at the response this story received, but I think it has little to do with me and much to do with a quiet boy named Masen. So thank you, Masen, for making us all happy and giving us hope.

And now for the question everyone wants to ask . . . will there be a sequel? The truth is I don't know. I have ideas for outtakes, one shots, and a multi-chap, but as to whether or not they come to fruition is yet to be seen. However, for those who did not participate in the Fandom for Texas, Her Name is Bella: Masen Days Prequel will be posted on my profile in January. To be notified when it or any other Masen related stories become available be sure to put me on author alert. I'm sure I will be going through Masen withdrawal, so check in or subscribe to my blog where I will shower you with pictures and what ifs and whatnots. I'm sure I will never get tired of talking Masen, so I apologize in advance for this.

And now I want to cry, but I won't. I will be strong like Masen and simply say, "It's fine."

*shrugs*


	19. The Day Masen

Never thought I could fall in love. Not completely, anyway. My parents never showed me how—not by example, that's for sure. They weren't even really around . . . that much. So relationships, true love, and marriage weren't going to happen for me. And I was fine. Until I met someone. And it changed everything.

I couldn't be more happy if I tried, though I'm still scared. Scared it won't last because that's the way life is. But I'm willing to try. Because it's worth it.

So much of this is worth it.

Even the dependence. The feeling in my gut that twists my insides and makes me question my health—body and mind; it's all worth it.

Never knew it was possible to depend on someone so completely it hurts to be away from them. And I know pain. It was painful just saying goodbye last night, touching and kissing like it was the last time. It was hard to part, but it's always hard to part. Have to talk myself into leaving every time we're together. So the thought that I don't have to anymore fills me with excitement—like having impromptu hot, dirty sex under the bridge at The Wedge excitement. Which I cannot get out of mind. It was damn good. But this—us together—it's . . . incomprehensible that this is actually happening.

Because I never get what I want. But today . . . I am.

We're together now, creeping through her house. Heading upstairs, my feet miss the creaky spots. I learned them early on, getting used to the sounds this old house makes in case I needed to sneak around or out. Didn't really have to. I was lucky in that way, I guess. The small, pink flip-flopped feet beside me make noise, but it's not loud; it doesn't even outdo the bass thumping of my heart that's ready to pound out of my chest. This is just . . . crazy.

She's beside me in the doorway, looking me over and grinning. Really? I get to have this? Be with her? Maybe forever? The idea baffles me so much I'm in a stupor. She chuckles and enters her room, smirking over her shoulder. Her smile, giggle, body that keeps me up late at night, wit that keeps me laughing, and quiet innocence that keeps me intrigued is overwhelming. Everyday she overwhelms me. But, all of it—this, us, our dynamic—it's all great, really. She's great, and she's moving in with me. Today. How is this happening?

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're quiet."

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About you."

"And?"

"And our future."

"Yeah, huh. Our future."

"Do you want me to . . ." I point to her dresser but she waves me away, so I sit on the bed, watching her move around her space so comfortable in her skin. Which I love. I love that all we need is a private, quiet place, our bodies—nothing else—and we can communicate without all the distraction that words create.

Although . . . I love her words. But there are times when words confuse, when they're too much, when they're not enough. Words fail where the body does not. And I think she gets that. Hope she does. She seems to—she's always been able to speak to me using our own shorthand. Love that so much. That she's okay with my silence.

"These or these?" She holds up two pairs of underwear and raises an eyebrow. Want to lay her down right now and say neither. She never needs them as far as I'm concerned, though the two she's holding up are awesome—one was even awesome under that bridge.

I flash the peace sign, and she places both in her backpack, which is ridiculous because she has five times the amount of clothes I have, and I used a duffle bag.

"Gonna get a bigger bag." I point to the hall, and she nods.

Peeking into the linen closet, there's a suitcase on the bottom adorned with her address. I'll never forget these house numbers for as long as I live.

She packs her favorite clothes (and my favorite clothes—little red shirt included), some face stuff, and other personal items, including my notebook.

When she's ready, we say goodbye to her room, her house, her life here. I run my hands up her back and pull her in close and tight—where I like her—and kiss her on her front porch. I shake my head in disbelief when she drops hers into my chest and sighs. Still can't believe this is happening, but I barrel on because I want this more than I've ever wanted anything.

"You ready?"

"Yeah. You?"

With my hand on her hip and my nose in her hair, my girl locks the door to my past with a click. She slides her hand into my own, linking our fingers.

"Yeah, me too." I hold my future's hand, leading her into the first day of the rest of our lives.

**Author's Note: **You'll be happy to know I have written more, and I will continue to write more. And I do hope to post it someday. Life is busy—for Masen and Bella, and for me too. *shrugs*

Purely


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